


Subcutaneous Sherlock

by SeverEstHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Beginnings, Cigarettes, Drugs, Falling In Love, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Magpies, Male Slash, Romance, Slash, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 56,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverEstHolmes/pseuds/SeverEstHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magpies, Mycroft, Moriarty and - John! Less superficial things are getting under the skin of Sherlock Holmes, not all of them are savoury...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Latent Obscurities

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and James Moriarty are the intellectual property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.
> 
> A/N: Sherlock is having trouble with an old habit of his, one that only he and his brother knew about before John came into Sherlock's life. But maybe John will be the one to help pull Sherlock out of that habit?

            The rain spattered onto the screen of Dr. John H. Watson’s phone, despite his best efforts to protect it from the downpour; 17:37pm, he was later than usual. His last patient at the surgery had been a particularly problematic one – an older gentleman who was convinced that he required urgent aortic valve replacement surgery, when there was absolutely nothing wrong with him other than a fondness for whisky and a passion for daytime medical dramas on the tv…

John had been serving as a locum doctor in a surgery, just a ten minute walk away from the flat in Baker Street, for the past two and a half weeks as one of their regular GP’s had been forced to take her maternity leave early and they needed someone to fill the stop gap before their arranged maternity leave cover could arrive. John hadn’t quite believed that his name had been found by chance by the surgery, he definitely wasn’t on the locum register because he hadn’t been keen on being requested from surgeries all over the country for maybe only a couple of days work… Not that he objected to the position, they were paying well for the four weeks cover that he was going to do for them. He had a suspicion that Mycroft probably had a hand in securing this job. Cases had been thin on the ground lately and John reckoned that Mycroft was trying to be nice to John and take him away from the infernal moods that had been encapsulating Sherlock… but if that was the actual truth then John would have to talk to Mycroft, because giving some kind of activity to stimulate Sherlock would be much more productive! This was the longest stretch of time that Sherlock had gone without any cases at all, for as long as John had known him. Since the closure of his last case, he had received a few visitors in the days predating – none of them had pertained to enough intellectual interest for him to do anything about. This lack of interest by Sherlock had presented itself as a decline in his mood, which had impacted consequentially on his daily life. He had spent many hours curled up in his armchair, knees tight to his chest and his head rested down on his breast, with a vacant look filling his eyes. On the occasion that John had first met Sherlock in St. Bartholemews, Sherlock had been forthcoming in his “bad points” as he termed them at the time, he had mentioned that he sometimes had black periods where he wouldn’t speak to anyone and would sulk for days on end, and he was certainly living up to that first statement… A black mood was gripping Sherlock, wrapping its long dark tangled legs around his mind and his person, and dragging him down into its mirky depths.

On several instances in the past John had had reason to believe that Sherlock had dabbled with some less than savoury substances – the supposed drugs bust and Sherlock’s reaction to it had planted that idea firmly into John’s mind. Then several offhand comments that Sherlock had made since that time confirmed that in some point in his life – for reasons that Sherlock described as “purely intellectual” – that he had dabbled with drugs and, by the sounds of it, cocaine was his drug of choice. Living with Sherlock as John had been for some time now, he could understand that the great intellect that Sherlock was endowed with and the need for stimulation that occupied him did pose certain problems when cases of interest were lacking. He was convinced that this old drug habit had reared its ugly head once more and was becoming a more common occurrence in Sherlock’s day to day life… not that anyone would _really_ be able to say with Sherlock – the man’s brain worked in such a peculiar fashion anyway that any further obscurities were difficult to distinguish as separate. It wasn’t hard for him to be convinced; twice in the past two weeks John had noted that Sherlock’s personal hypodermic needle had been out of it’s black leather case and was being sterilised, which signalled that it had been used for one purpose or another… that purpose became more suspicious when Sherlock had suddenly started behaving in ways which, although could not be said to be unusual in his bohemian lifestyle, were certainly out with the “norm” of what John was used to putting up with. It was familiar to see Sherlock staring into space, but normally with an intent concentration present in the swirling grey mist in his eyes, but not recently… Recently his gaze had been vacant, there was no sparkle within his eyes; his eyes had hollowed out and John sometimes felt like he was gazing into the cavities of Sherlock’s skull. He seemed to have lost interest in everything that was going on and had retreated back into his own mind. It unnerved John not to see Sherlock in overdrive because of boredom, or on the tail of a case, just because he seemed to have lapsed into a horrible disposition. There was a full catalogue of signs that John had noticed about Sherlock’s conduct in the past couple of weeks that had sent alarm bells ringing in John’s mind, which he had tried to silence.

The rain had been drifting on and off all day’ in the morning it had looked as though it was going to shape up to be a fine day – the sun was shining, with a light breeze blowing through the trees, but no heavy dark clouds at that time. It had looked so fine that John hadn’t bothered to put his big outside coat on, but just a couple of minutes into his walk to the surgery the rain clouds had descended from the blue sky and the downpour begun. John had been very wet by the time he reached the surgery, and as he got inside the sun broke through the clouds and it had cleared up. It seemed like his walk back home from work was becoming a repeat of the morning – getting out a little later due to that hypochondriac patient – the clouds had been beginning to portray a threatening atmosphere. Now the rain had started again, just lightly at first, but as John replaced his phone into his pocket he could feel the drops becoming larger. Reluctant as John felt to be thoroughly drenched as he had been that morning, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and sped up his pace. Most commuters were in cars, or making their way hurriedly to the tube station, no one would notice if John broke into a gentle jog as the rain began to come down harder.

            As John rounded the street corner which led into Baker Street, he delved into his pockets in search of the keys to the door of his flat. Slamming the door and eradicating the traffic noise from outside brought an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion and relief over John. He pulled his wet jacket off, hanging it up on the coat rail as he headed towards the staircase. He was looking forwards to a cup of tea and a period of time in which he could remain seated and not have to do anything or move – being out of work for a while had re-impacted him with how tiring it was to work from 8 to 5 every day. As he reached the first landing of his stairway a strange noise reached John’s ears, a strangled cry not specifically pertaining to a man or a woman. The first thought in John’s mind was that it must be that of a client, and maybe he should hold off until they were finished, but the cry was proceeded by a large bang from inside the room. All of John’s military training suddenly sprang into action, he bounded up the last set of stairs and burst into their sitting room. The room was, there were no other words for it, trashed… Some of the carpet was crumpled up, one of the chairs that usually sat around the work table was on its side on the floor, the desk and all the papers and books were in a state of complete disarray spread all over the room. John’s mouth fell open at the state of the room, and he stared around in a paroxysm of horror as different reasons for this scenario – violent clients, burglars – so many wild theories shot through his head faster than he could prevent them from doing so. But words failed him, John’s heart leapt into his throat so violently that he felt it throbbing through his skull; the long thin frame of Sherlock was in among the rubble strewn all over the floor. His face was hidden from the direction that John was standing, but the rest of his body looked like it was twitching and writhing in some kind of pain.

            “Sherlock?” John pushed aside the chair that was lying in his pathway to reach his prostrate figure of his friend. John couldn’t understand why the highly honed level of nervous tension that he had acquired through his army training had been shattered the instant that he was next to his friend lying on the floor. Kneeling down beside Sherlock, he placed his hands upon the shoulder nearest to him and rolled him from his side onto his back. His face was a stark white colour, in great contrast to the dark circles that were present around his eyes and the pupils that were staring up at John were dilated and hollow. But what made John the most uncomfortable was the appearance of childlike terror and unrecognition which was overwhelmingly present all over Sherlock’s features. A Shaking hand reached out and grasped the front of John’s knitted jumper, John could feel the long thin fingers gripping through the material as tight as his trembling hands would let him, and peering up into the face of the man whom he was holding onto. Sherlock’s breathing was coming in wheezing gasps, highlighting further the extent of his distress, and when he spoke his voice was weak and higher pitch than John had ever heard it.

            “My…” Sherlock rasped, his words trailing away as his throat sounded dry, he pressed his eyes shut tightly for a few seconds, before opening them even wider so they appeared to bulge out of his face. “Mycrr… Mycroft?” John was slightly bemused by this, and felt himself growing instantly more worried about why Sherlock was in this state.

            “Mycroft’s not here Sherlock… what have you been doing? Has someone been in here?” John replied, trying to keep his voice firm and calm. Sherlock groaned piteously, his back arching as though he was in agony and the grip of his hand on John’s jumper relinquished. “Are you ill?” John had bent down and threaded his arm underneath Sherlock’s shoulder blades in an effort to be able to raise him into a sitting position. As he tried to do this he realised that his friend was so weak that every muscle in his body seemed to have lost their control to contract and hold him in any other position than supine. Sherlock’s head flopped backwards, rather like a newborn baby whose muscles are not developed enough to hold it upright, and his eyes were firmly closed. Fixing his hand around Sherlock’s chest and fastening his grip enabled John to hoist his friend ton his feet; Sherlock’s frame had always indicated a light, wiry composition, but John became aware that his hand was pressing firmly onto a set of ribs that were projecting from the skin, his weight was a lot less than John had reckoned for. John basically had to carry Sherlock to the couch, as his ability to stand up was greatly depleted, he collapsed down onto the couch and lay. Apart from his left foot twitching in a regular fashion but the rest of his remaining deadly still. “Sherlock?” John said, as he was hit by the feeling that his skills as a doctor were needed by Sherlock at this moment in time. He took a second to bring his mind into the correct frame before beginning to act, he placed one hand on Sherlock’s left shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?” Indistinct mumbling was the only thing that came from Sherlock’s mouth, so at least he was conscious enough to respond to John’s voice. John gave Sherlock’s shoulder another squeeze and a tiny shake to try and rouse him to consciousness. There was a light beading of sweat forming upon Sherlock’s face; John placed his hand onto Sherlock’s forehead and was instantly aware of a fever that was raging internally, even though Sherlock was still shivering profusely. “Sherlock, open your eyes for me?” John tried to command firmly but Sherlock seemed incapable, so John lightly raised the upper eyelid of each of Sherlock’s eyes to check the dilation of his pupils. The hairs on the back of John’s neck stood on end and he knew that he had to do something immediately. It was clear to John that Sherlock was very ill.

            “Mmmmff…” Sherlock opened his eyes blearily, seemingly unable to focus on anything. “Mycr…” Sherlock suddenly sighed extremely heavily and his eyelids snapped shut once more.

            John stepped out of the room, retrieving his phone from out the pocket of his still damp jeans, he stared down at the keypad for a moment. Mycroft… he kept asking for Mycroft… It was highly unusual for the younger Holmes to request his brother ever, but maybe that was the sign that he was really ill. Mycroft would never  answer a phone call from John, he was always much too busy for that, but yet he was always efficient in replying to any messages that were sent to him – possibly because he had Anthea or someone similar going through them all. John was hovering uncertainly, considering whether to call an ambulance to take Sherlock to A&E – he was torn between his two dispositions, one as a doctor who knew that Sherlock appeared to need urgent medical attention, the other as Sherlock’s friend who knew that Sherlock would be infuriated to find himself in a hospital. The message to Mycroft had been sent, and in that brief pause where John was torn between his vocation and his friendship a startling even occurred which gave John no time to call for medical help. A spine tingling shriek was omitted from the room in which John had left the semi-conscious Sherlock lying, then there was a scrambling, frantic sound of feet.

            On entering the room John was bombarded with a barrage of incoherent noise proceeding from Sherlock, who was perched precariously upon the back of his armchair. Through his yelling he was waving his arms around wildly; his eyes had lit up from the few minutes previous – they were alert and on edge – so much so that it looked bizarre, but the flushed, feverish appearance had not disappeared.

            “Sherlock!” John ejaculated in utter surprise, “What the hell are you - ?!” John’s phrase was cut short by him noticing the jack knife, which usually fixed the unopened correspondence to the mantelpiece, was being held in Sherlock’s right hand. Sherlock’s gaze settled upon John, but it was still rather blurry and unfocused. John felt the vague impression that Sherlock was looking through him rather than at him. His eyes bulged in his white face and he bellowed:

            “Moriarty!” His voice was still slurred, but the name was clear to make out, especially as his proclamation was followed by a further brandishing of the knife. “Moriarty…!” He growled, hunching down so he looked like a cat about to pounce. John stood observing this bizarre display, personally transfixed, his heart being sent in thrills of horror as Sherlock seemed to be swinging from a tightly drawn thread, tugging him internally from conflict to conflict.

            “Sherlock.” John addressed his friend, who was still perched upon the back of the armchair, in the calmest voice he could muster with his insides feeling like they had turned into live rats. “Sherlock, can you hear me? Moriarty’s not here, it’s me – John.”

            “No, no, no, no, no, no! Moriarty!” Sherlock raised a trembling arm and pointed over John’s left shoulder. “No! No! You can’t! I won’t let you!” Sherlock’s voice was raising into hysterics, John double checked all around him to make sure that the ghastly Moriarty wasn’t lurking in any corners – the only people in the room were himself and Sherlock. John made to move closer to the detective, but a new outcry halted him. “No! Stay away! Don’t move an inch closer!” John’s bewilderment and frustration was rising, even more so when he saw that Sherlock wasn’t even looking in his direction. As John watched, Sherlock slid down from his place atop the armchair into the seat, with his hands over his face, still repeating: “No, no, no, no, no…” The jack knife had been dropped and landed with a clatter on the floor. John saw Sherlock shudder violently; he gave a hiccoughing sob then began to claw furiously at his skin. “Get off me! No!” He swiped at his arms first, but then he turned his attention to his neck, raking his fingers as though trying to detach someone’s grip from around it.

            John couldn’t stand it any longer – not as a friend or a doctor – he bounded forwards towards the chair which Sherlock was thrashing around within and commanded:

            “Sherlock! It’s John! Stop!” He could hear Sherlock struggling to draw oxygen into his lungs with the ferocity that he was ripping at this throat. John deftly outstretched his hands and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s wrists, forcing them away from the neck and holding them firmly in the air. For an extremely thin man it was incredible the amount of strength that Sherlock was able to enact, John was hard pushed ton secure his grip around the wrists and hold them out of where they could do any damage to either of them.  “Sherlock, as your friend and a doctor I need you to calm down so I can help you!” John grunted through the continual effort he was having to displace trying to keep Sherlock’s resistance at bay. It was several minutes as Sherlock fought against John, still making nonsensical outbursts. John struggled fiercely, using one of his knees to secure that Sherlock’s legs didn’t kick out and make contact with him. Even through the struggling he could hardly fail to notice how close in proximity he was to Sherlock. He could see the wildness in his eyes – like an inhumane shine full of paranoid action; the pale skin of Sherlock’s face was drawn tightly over the bones of his face, which added to the menacing impression of the way he was acting; his lips were parted because of the effort he was expounding in his fight against John. In all John wasn’t sure whether this closer look at Sherlock had made him any more or less sure about the condition of his friends’ mental sanity. He looked like a wild animal – and he was certainly acting like one. “Sherlock, stop fighting me! You need to calm down so I can call an ambulance and get help!” John’s frustration was becoming clear through his voice.

            “I don’t think that will be necessary…” The cool, calm voice of Mycroft Holmes announced itself from the doorway. 


	2. The Might of the Magpies

Sherlock wasn’t often interrupted while he was in his mind palace – actually he was _never_ interrupted while he was in his mind palace! It was one of the reasons he liked it so much, because nothing stupid could penetrate its defences. Being a purely metaphorical palace constructed inside the boundaries of his own mind it meant that he was the only person who could barricade the doors and inhabit it singularly. Sherlock wasn’t trying to link up any disjointed ideas or form any conclusions at the moment, his mind palace was in use as a perfect method of solitude – it didn’t matter that he was the only person in the flat currently… The solitude was more complete and peaceful when it was inside his mind.

            Sherlock had been flooded with a warmth that was trickling down through every artery, vein and capillary; it was like the pleasant warmth of liquid wax was heating him up. Melting away anything that was wrong, anything that was clogging up his system, allowing him to see completely clearly once more. It was the clarity which he craved, the clarity that made all of this worthwhile…

            Sherlock could feel his breathing slowing down until it was at the metronome speed of 60 beats per minute, the same speed as Johann Sebastian Bach’s _‘Air on the G string’_ ; slow and sedately – with the perfect balance between stillness and movement to conjure the perfect state of meditation. Slow breathing, convexed warmth slucing through him and perfect silence in his mind palace – it was just what he wanted. But the stillness was being disturbed by a gentle tap, tap, tapping that was growing louder and louder, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. However the tapping continued to grow louder and more persistent even as Sherlock attempted to focus on keeping his breathing smooth, but as it continued Sherlock became aware of a sensation which proved odd at the least. He was used to the feeling which could most easily be described as molten wax flowing around his whole body, he enjoyed it immensely with the feeling of cleansing that accompanied it. But today it felt like some of the wax had begun to set prematurely; like there was a cold blockage around his thoracic vertebrae that joined the two sides of his ribcage together. At first it just felt like a bit of discomfort, Sherlock shifted marginally to see if that would dislodge the strange sensation – but it didn’t move. The discomfort increased gradually until the blockage seemed to turn into an external pressure, like a tonne weight placing force on his chest.

            Eventually when the weight upon his chest had become so heavy that it may have equalled a fully grown man and the tapping that was still as persistent as ever had become so loud that it wasn’t able to be ignored anymore he retracted from the calm of his mind palace and opened his eyes, bringing him back to the living room of 221B Baker Street.

            The sky outside the window was grey, but the light was unnaturally bright to Sherlock’s eyes after the darkness of the inside of his skull. The bizarre tapping noise had been coming from the direction of the window; a magpie was perched on the window sill looking in at the room. Sherlock scowled, why had that bloody bird been so insistent on annoying him? And why now had the infernal bird stopped tapping on the glass and started staring back at Sherlock? It’s head cocked to one side and Sherlock felt unnerved at the piercing nature of the bird’s gaze, it was looking _directly_ at him. He blinked; the magpie had morphed through the glass of the window, it was perched upon the inside ledge of the window. It was still staring eerily at Sherlock; Sherlock closed his eyes, absolutely positive that he must be imagining things – and imagining things was never a good sign… there was no rustle of wings, there was no sound of movement within the room, but when Sherlock re-opened his eyes the magpie was on the arm of the chair and it’s eyes were glowing with a scarlet tinge. Sherlock jumped into action without realising what he was doing, he was on his feet as though someone had sent an electrical surge down his spine; he took a furious swipe at the bird – but his arm melted right through it instead of making contact. The bird opened its beak and made a hideous noise halfway between a squawk and a screech; he made another swipe at the creature and exactly the same thing happened again.

            “What the hell are you!” He yelled at the thing and tried to catch the bird that was taunting him, as he missed for the third time he heard another screech and wheeled around. There was another magpie on the railing which the curtains hung from; and a third above the door frame. Sherlock spun in a bizarre pirouette like some kind of ballet dancer, clocking all the magpies that were dotted in different locations around the room: a total of seven he was sure he had counted. He didn’t stop to think of what to do, but pounced after the one on top of the curtain railing, destabilizing some of the piles of paper and books resting on the top of the table as he rushed by, but as he got close to the bird that he was aiming for, it disappeared – then reappeared at the other side of the room. Sherlock tried to shake his head and clear the mistiness that was descending in front of his eyes… the multiple magpies that were present in the room were all watching him. His heart seemed to be pounding in his ears, his mouth tasted like metal and he stumbled as he tried to pursue the next target. The world was gyrating, peaking and swaying beneath his feet which made it very hard for him to put his feet down with any accuracy. Suddenly all of the magpies moved in unison, taking flight at once and circling above Sherlock’s head out of reach. The usual warm pleasant feeling that Sherlock experienced had evaporated completely… He was drenched in a cold sweat, fear gripping his insides in a vice and compressing them as the magpies above his head descending lower towards him. He flung up his hands above his face, dragging air into his lungs as a black cloud of those creatures and just a general darkness of the room crushed in on him. Sherlock pitifully tried to use the nearest thing to him to defend himself, a chair from next to the table – holding it partway between a weapon and a shield and tried to fend the birds off, but to no avail. They kept coming closer and closer, their eyes glowing with a garish red brightness. When they reached him and he began to feel claws and beaks on the bare skin of his face and forearms, he heard a yell escape from somewhere inside him, bursting out of his mouth as though it had a life of its own. He launched the chair that he had been using as a semi-shield into the dark cloud and fell down into blackness.

            Hands; strong, firm hands were grasping hold of Sherlock’s arms and pulling him upright – but the world in front of his eyes were still blurred with mist, and speech and recognition were unreachable.

            Magpies? What significance would magpies be? Magpies were intelligent, dark creatures, capable of much misdeed and possessive violence when turned in that particular way… Sherlock could feel himself shaking, waves of terrifyingly strong nausea were threatening to overcome him, but he fought against it – knowing there was some kind of deeper meaning to the magpies… like a bolt of lightning it hit him; he sat dead upright, eyes wide open and the realisation firm in his head: Moriarty. The magpies were Moriarty’s birds, his sentinels, checking first before the oversized magpie himself appeared. Sherlock found himself with his jack knife in his hand, ready to defend against Moriarty wherever he would appear… The magpies were still watching, silently, waiting until they could be dismissed by their rightful master.

            And he appeared, swathed in the suit that he always wore, with a ghastly red hazes all around him like some kind of eerie halo or aura… He didn’t speak, but his presence was enough. Sherlock couldn’t get his brain to engage properly, so instead he waved his jack knife around as threateningly as he could, managing to slur out the words: “Moriarty! No, stay away!” But the birds were descending again, swarming around ready to smother when given their chance – he tried his best to keep them at bay, focusing all his strength upon the horrible figure of Moriarty standing over him, grinning manically. Invisible hands were holding firm, eventually pinning him to his armchair… until inevitable darkness washed over him, and memory faded into oblivion… 


	3. Threats and Decisions

John and Sherlock both froze amidst their fighting as Mycroft’s dulcet tones hit their ears; John felt a rush of relief that Mycroft had responded to his message so promptly.

            “John, I think you may let go of my little brother now, I may need your assistance.” Mycroft instructed rather placidly, placing his umbrella and briefcase down by the door. Slightly reluctantly John let go of his grip on Sherlock’s wrists, instantly feeling a little embarrassed that Mycroft had found him practically sitting on Sherlock’s lap. The moment John had relinquished his grip, Sherlock had begun to writhe and swipe at himself once more, John took a few paces backwards so he was standing alongside Mycroft; the two men watched the third for a few seconds. “Did you find him like this?” John was baffled by the serenity emanating from Mycroft’s manner.

            “No, I found him lying in the middle of the room with everything the way you see it just now.” John answered, trying to imitate the calmness that Mycroft was managing to achieve so successfully, but not quite attaining it. “He was practically unconscious, I moved him from the floor to the couch and left the room for two minutes, I was going to call an ambulance, he was going in and out of respitory arrest, but then… well, _this_ seemed to come over him in a matter of seconds! He was screaming about Moriarty and waving about the jack knife. I was attempting to stop him strangling himself.”

            “Right.” Mycroft sighed; he had dug his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I may need your assistance now Dr. Watson, we’ll require some water and might need to exert some strong force to make Sherlock do what we need him to.” John obliged, filling up a glass of water in the kitchen and carrying it back through. “You need to secure him – similar to what you were doing previously – so that I can administer these without causing too much damage to either of us.” Mycroft had held out his hand, revealing two grey-white tablets in the palm of his hand. “We can discuss details after we’ve prevented my little brother from ripping his own throat out.” Mycroft responded rather coolly and John didn’t feel it would be wise to argue any further. John manoeuvred his way back to the armchair which held Sherlock and began to plan how to secure him. The best way would be exactly the same as he had done before, locking both of his hands around Sherlock’s wrist and pulling them above his head, then using one knee to bar calcitration occurring.

            “Mycroft!” John grunted, exerting all of his physical strength to keep Sherlock from moving; Mycroft had become distracted by his phone, but upon John calling him he moved to behind the armchair and addressed his brother.

            “Sherlock.” Mycroft instantly took on the role of authoritarian. “Open your mouth.” John felt Sherlock’s whole body twist in an effort to get away from Mycroft, but he held onto him firmly. Mycroft, also, had decided that he may need to take some physical action to reach his goal; he had placed one hand on Sherlock’s chin in an attempt to open his mouth – Sherlock writhed and thrashed in retaliation. “Stop acting like a child! Open your mouth!” Mycroft thundered, but to no avail – Sherlock was highly practised in acting like a child.

            “Hold his nose?” John suggested with some effort. “It’ll make him open his mouth to breathe, then just shove them in and hold his mouth shut.” Mycroft did as John had suggested, Sherlock tried to relent, holding his breath for as long as he possibly could. John could see his face colouring as the lack of oxygen became more and more until he finally gave a huge gasp, giving Mycroft the perfect opportunity to place the two tablets into Sherlock’s mouth and jamming it shut before Sherlock could take the chance to spit them out. Once Mycroft was sure that the tablets had been swallowed he released the grip on his brother’s face – Sherlock had gone limp and was no longer fighting against John, his arms falling onto his knees like he was a rag doll and his frantic mood becoming much more pacified; maybe it was just the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to change what had just happened. Mycroft had stood upright and straightened out his clothes where they had been ruffled by the scuffle; John was able to stand up away from Sherlock without worry about his friend’s actions.

            “That should work pretty swiftly.” Mycroft nodded to himself, Sherlock was completely unanimated now; staring out into space. “He’ll probably need something sweet to balance out his blood sugar in quarter of an hour or so.” John had stooped to retrieve the chair which was still lying on its side in an effort to tidy up the room slightly, he spotted Mycroft perching himself on the edge of the couch looking slightly disdainful.

            “I’ll make a pot then, shall I?” John sighed, gathering up piles of paper and books from the floor and dumping them in no particular order on the table as Mycroft didn’t move an inch from where he was sat. John moved into the kitchen, hoping he was out of the sightlines of Mycroft so that he wouldn’t notice the annoyed look that he knew was on his face. John had requested Mycroft’s help after Sherlock had repeated his elder brother’s name several times, after Mycroft had seemed to know exactly what to do… but kept John in the dark about what that had been. What had those pills been? Why had Sherlock fought so hard against Mycroft administering them? And why would he need sweet tea in a little while to balance his blood sugar? What was going on?!

            John came to the realisation that he was tapping his foot quite harshly on the floor and staring at the part of Sherlock he could see while waiting for the kettle to boil. His frustration must have been apparent to Mycroft because his voice came floating through to the kitchen.

            “I will explain all that you want to know Dr. Watson – though I must say, your affection for my fool of a younger brother is touching!” Mycroft spat out the last part of the sentence and John bristled in annoyance at the lack of care about Sherlock’s welfare and the insinuation that Mycroft was making. Ignoring what Mycroft had just said, John poured the water from the kettle into the pot to let it brew and carried it through; placing it on the table with all the mistrewn papers and then continuing to try and straighten up all the items that had been disarranged. With the chair that had been on its side stood upright, and the carpet unruffled once more, and most (if not all) of the papers that weren’t meant to be on the floor back up onto the desk, the room looked slightly more presentable than the mess it had been when John had first entered the room this afternoon. John stood stock still in the middle of the room, gaze flitting between Sherlock and Mycroft, feeling distinctly out of the loop.

            “So are you going to explain what is actually going on?” John questioned abruptly; feeling like he had just walked into some kind of car crash, he was completely disorientated as to what was going on. “What medication did you give him – as what was it for?”

            “Pour the tea and sit down.” John involuntarily clenched his fists at Mycroft’s response – he understood that Mycroft was Sherlock’s older brother, but what right did he have to order John about in his own flat?

            _‘A good soldier bides his time, gains all sufficient knowledge and acts according to the best plans of outcome.’_ John was recalled to the Colonel that had spoken to him when he had first entered into military training; and although the best plan of outcome to John at this moment felt like punching Mycroft squarely in the jaw, John ground his teeth together and did what Mycroft had suggested. He placed a mug next to the, still, despondent Sherlock, then another in front of Mycroft – a little bit more forcefully than he had intended – and took his seat in the armchair which he preferred.

            “I don’t want to offend your intelligence Dr. Watson; I know you have a high level of comprehension for what is happening and why you found Sherlock in the state that he was in.” Mycroft began cryptically – why must _both_ the Holmes brothers _constantly_ talk in cyphered riddles? John was internally conflicted; part of him wanted to roll his eyes at the patronising way that Mycroft was treating him; but his heart had catapulted up to the back of his throat and was beating a violent tattoo against his Adam’s apple. John had been convinced that this was the case, he had been sure that Sherlock was back on the drugs, but he had been trying to push those thoughts right out of his mind – but he could do that no longer with Mycroft confirming it. “You know that my brother has a rather… well, shadowy past with drugs…” Mycroft sighed; he was checking the time on his pocket watch, giving the indication that his time was short and wanted to get this over and done with as soon as he possibly could. “I had thought that he had maybe moved on from that stage in his life, but unfortunately it appears to still have had some subtle hold on him which has drawn him back. I’ve suspected this for a while – I know you have also, but neither of us have done anything to stop him, until here we are… You helped me give him active charcoal just now – I’ve used it in the past so I was sure that it would prevent this situation from deteriorating any further.” Mycroft sighed heavily; disdain playing across his features as he surveyed his brother. Mycroft placed his mug of tea down and got to his feet, in two large strides he had crossed the room to Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock’s level of consciousness appeared to be growing more acute from the complete absence that it had been when John arrived at the flat, he didn’t look so manic or aware as he had done in the middle of that episode; he looked up at Mycroft with a mixture of annoyance and sheepish expression on his face.

            “You told me…” Mycroft suddenly spat at Sherlock, his hand darting out grabbing Sherlock’s wrist roughly and yanked it above his head. Sherlock let out a disconsolate yell at the briskness in his method, but Mycroft ignored him entirely; using his other hand he turned his brother’s shirt cuff down and wrenched it down past his elbow. Sherlock’s left arm was dotted with pin pricks extending from his elbow right up to his wrist, graffiting his pale skin with bruises ranging from a deep purple colour which were obviously the most recent to faded yellow green ones that were obviously healing. John couldn’t prevent the gasp that had escaped his mouth. “That you had stopped! That it was going to be the last time!” There was no mistaking the malice in Mycroft’s voice; Sherlock hadn’t even struggled against his brother, his arm was limp in the grip of Mycroft’s hand and he was staring ahead of him as though he was the only person present. Mycroft made a grunting noise as he let Sherlock’s arm drop heavily onto his lap. Mycroft turned to John seemingly disgusted by his younger brother; “I think you had suspicions just as I did, and now I’ve confirmed them for you.” John felt as though a hand had closed in around his windpipe, making him unable to speak so he nodded mutely. “I think it’s about time that we did something about it.”

            “We?” John croaked, finally finding his voice as he looked between the brothers – Sherlock sullenly staring ahead of him and Mycroft looking resolute.

            “Well we can’t allow for him to continue in this manner… I don’t think it would be beneficial to either of us, or for him.” Mycroft stated rather matter of factly. “He may think that being on these drugs help stimulate his mind when there is little else to occupy his time, but it very rapidly consumes him until he is capable of little else than taking more. This is his fourth relapse, he promised Mummy that there wouldn’t be another after the second; and I haven’t seen him this far gone since the first time!”

            “The first time? When was that?” John was looking at his friend, he had known that Sherlock had had past encounters and dealings with drugs, but he had never been fully informed about the occurrences of these “encounters”.

            “I was twenty-three, he was sixteen – the school had informed our parents that he had been acting oddly. Not that he didn’t act oddly already, so our parents brushed it aside, the school had been very good at putting up with both our… peculiarities. I went to visit him not long after, however, and found him half dead in his dorm room. I didn’t tell our parents, I knew how much it would upset Mummy, and father would have been furious with Sherlock.” Mycroft recounted very quickly, as though he wanted to get this part over and done with so he could leave. “I took him to my university residence and…” Mycroft faltered for a moment, “Helped him through withdrawal. He wasn’t particularly thankful at the time, for all he cared he was experimenting and having a bit of fun and it wasn’t hurting anyone. But if I hadn’t intervened at that time he’d be dead.” Mycroft’s eyebrows had contracted so that they knit together above his eyes. “Sometimes my younger brother doesn’t know what’s best for him – he needs someone else to bring him to his senses. In the past that had to be myself, but I think we both know that there is someone else who would be able to bring him to his senses a lot quicker and possibly for the final time.” Mycroft’s faze was more penetrating than just knowledge, it had a piercing omniscience that John didn’t like – and didn’t quite understand at the same time… What _exactly_ was Mycroft implying? He considered what Mycroft had just said for a moment slightly baffled, then the pieces clicked together and John started violently.

            “Me?! You think I can convince him to stop?!” John exclaimed in outright surprise, Mycroft cocked his head to one side and gazed at John – the look clearly displaying one of utter disbelief that John didn’t know what he was talking about right from the off.

            “Yes, you John!” Mycroft sighed in obvious exasperation, “As little as my brother shows it, you have had a profound effect on his life; you are his friend! He’s far more likely to listen to his friend than his “arch-enemy”, don’t you think?” John swallowed; Sherlock could be an obstinate ass, no – he was _always_ an obstinate ass… How could he do a better job of convincing Sherlock than his own brother would? “We need him off the drugs, I think you can persuade him to do that and then we can both help him.” There was a long pause as John’s stomach did back flips inside him.

            “Yeah, alright… I’ll try and convince him to stop… but what if he doesn’t want to? That is his choice after all…” John put forth the suggestion as there was a fair chance that that would be exactly what Sherlock thought. Mycroft looked from John to Sherlock and back again.

            “There comes a time when even the most intelligent and well-reasoned of men have their choices taken out of their hands because they are inept of looking at the entire picture without tarring it with their own personal colours…” Mycroft said calmly. “Sherlock has now reached that point, and being the two closest human beings to him I think that decision must come down to us. I’ve made my thoughts clear upon the matter, it’s now up to you what conclusion you draw and act upon.”

            “I see…” John nodded in agreement, “Yes, I will try my best…” John felt the decision weighing down on his heart like an externally present force. Mycroft nodded curtly, taking that as his absence to leave; just as he picked up his briefcase and umbrella Sherlock’s voice halted him in his tracks.

            “And what shall happen if I refuse the decision made for me?” Slowly Mycroft turned to look at his brother, a pitying and resigned look on his face.

            “Then I have the means to destroy you and your livelihood, Sherlock… and believe me I would not hesitate in bringing that about if need be.” With those final words Mycroft exited the flat, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind him. 


	4. Supposed Friends

_‘Oh God… what do I do now? What the hell am I supposed to say to him? Do I ignore him; or act like this has never happened?’_ John’s mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour as he retreated into the kitchen area. Mycroft’s threats had resulted in a more than prickly atmosphere which was emanating in a cloud around Sherlock and the armchair where he was situated. John had decided, for that reason, to hide away for a while – out of the reach of Sherlock’s mood – until he felt it may be safe. He intended to grab food and replenish his mug of tea, then whisk away to his room, where he was sure that he’d be able to find something to occupy himself with. John’s mind was reeling with the events that had happened since he got home from work and with the information that Mycroft had supplied – namely the information that Sherlock had been only sixteen when he first was consumed by narcotics.

            “John.” Sherlock’s voice came through from the living room, “If you’re making another cup of tea I shall have one also, this one is rather lukewarm.” John’s hopes to escape to his room and avoid the uncomfortable situation slipped away almost instantly. With a resigned feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, John placed a teabag in a second mug and proceeded to make another cup for Sherlock. Mutely he carried his own and Sherlock’s mugs through to the living room and placed it on the small table next to the lukewarm cup. His decision to try and evade this situation was now resolutely broken, so he dropped heavily into the armchair across from Sherlock. “Mycroft needs to stop over exaggerating everything.” Sherlock commented, as though trying to quash the final statements that Mycroft had made before leaving. Sherlock’s weak voice and shaky external demeanour flattened his conviction so much that he might as well had not said anything. He curled his long fingers around the mug which John had just brought to him; the same way that an ill person would cling to water, or a cold person cling to hot liquid in order to heat themselves up; and held the mug a few inches from his face. The location of the mug drew John’s attention to Sherlock’s face – he was so pale that he could have been a corpse.

            After Sherlock’s denial of what Mycroft had said John was doubly unsure of what to say and how to proceed with the conversation, so he let the silence in between the two of them gather. Sherlock was sipping rather tentatively at his tea, some of the colour was pooling back into his cheeks. After a very long while, which John spent turning situation after situation over inside his head, Sherlock eventually spoke again:

            “I… I hope I didn’t cause any alarm…” He spoke falteringly, the closest to apologetically that John had ever heard, but that wasn’t enough for John.

            “Cause any alarm?!” John burst out incredulously, “Of _course_ you caused alarm Sherlock! Why do you think I called your brother here?! You were asking for him – I’ve never heard you ask for him like that before… the state you were in! God Sherlock! How can you _possibly_ think you didn’t cause any alarm?!” John was breathing hard in his agitation and fury; Sherlock didn’t move or flinch under the quick angry words that had burst forth uncontrollably from John’s lips. Sherlock had the ability to command a presence wherever he was, in whatever situation he was in – but that presence and authority had vanished under the hail of words proceeding from John. John clenched his jaw together, still breathing hard and looking pointedly away from Sherlock, out of the window into the rainy evening. “Your intellect may be vastly superior than practically everyone you ever encounter…” John had managed to control the level of emotion in his voice, even though he could feel his hands shaking. “But sometimes you just don’t _think!_ ” It was unclear to John whether the words he was speaking were making an impact on Sherlock at all – or whether they were bouncing off him. John sighed and rubbed his hands across his face; inwardly he couldn’t identify whether it was anger or disappointment that was fuelling him to speak to Sherlock in this manner. “Did you never consider that at some point you might have a bad trip? Or some adverse reaction to the one you desired?” Sherlock shrugged, staring unseeingly into the brown liquid within his mug. “I don’t believe that you would disregard completely the possibility of having a reaction to that stuff – especially if it’s a street cut!” John gesticulated with his hands to emphasize the force of his words. “Would you have ever said anything? Would you have told Mycroft, or me? Or were you banking on someone finding you in time, like what happened today What if I had been delayed, or decided to go out tonight? Would I have come home to find a dead body…?” John trailed off slowly; a lump had formed in his throat which forced him to stop.

            “You and Mycroft both knew.” Sherlock muttered, “I hadn’t explicitly said anything, but…” He stopped. “I had plans for what I would do if I knew a bad trip was coming on, but todays didn’t present itself in the way it normally would. But today – I can hardly claim that I knew what was going on and would have been safe if you hadn’t arrived home…” He was speaking quietly and with great deliberation – it was about the closest to an apology that Sherlock was capable of – but it was no where near good enough…

            Since being invalided out of the army, life had been the most absurd roller-coaster for John. If Sherlock hadn’t strolled into his life without any warning then things would have turned out incredibly different from what they were now. There would have been no cases, no running around London chasing after threads of seeming impossibilities… John would probably still have been using his cane, still be depressed about the lack of prospects for the rest of his life. The idea of a life without Sherlock brightening it up in weird and, occasionally, infuriating ways was enough to send John back into the state of numbness in which he had been before the start of his friendship. Now he had had the taste of how wonderful things could be with Sherlock in his life, he was as sure as hell that he wasn’t going to let that go without putting up a serious fight! So there was no damned way that he would allow Sherlock to succumb to this vile habit…

            “I’ll need to take a look at your arm.” John spoke eventually, ripping his gaze from the window and looking back at Sherlock. The stare that Sherlock suddenly penetrated John with was so sharp that it could have cut through metal. “Don’t look at me like that Sherlock – I saw the state of your arm! It needs looked at by a doctor, and luckily for you – that’s exactly what I am!” John snapped, Sherlock’s lips pursed together as though he was about to argue against this.

            “Fine.” Sherlock agreed sulkily flicking back the cuff of his shirt sleeve and sticking his arm out in some kind of grisly offering for John to inspect. John pushed himself out of his armchair and as carefully as he could held out his hand and took Sherlock’s arm underneath the wrist. His stomach twisted at the sight of the multiple bruises all over Sherlock’s arm and the series of needle marks, some of which looked painfully inflamed.

            “Does this not hurt Sherlock?” John questioned slowly, Sherlock shrugged, which John took as a yes as he couldn’t imagine that any wounds that red and raised wouldn’t hurt even slightly. “Some of these need cleaned and dressed…”  John eventually stated, “I’ve got a first aid kit- ” John let go of Sherlock’s arm, strolled through to the kitchen and found his kit in one of the cupboards. Taking up Sherlock’s arm once more John began to clean the wounds with an antibacterial wipe, trying to be as gentle as he possibly could. There was still a sullen look on Sherlock’s face as he watched John tending to his arm.

            “They don’t actually hurt.” Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes and resting his head against the back of the chair while John took his time over a particularly nasty mark that was definitely infected. “I’ve had worse…” Sherlock informed John lazily, the slow deep intakes of breath that he was taking and his closed eyes told John that this was hurting him more than his stubborn pride would allow him to admit.

            “Worse? When you were sixteen you mean?” John could hardly keep a touch of accusation out of his voice, Sherlock’s head lifted and his eyes opened, his brows together in some kind of confusion.

            “Is it a big deal to you that I took drugs when I was younger?” Sherlock questioned lightly as though it was the most normal question he could possibly ask.

            “No, nope, not at all.” John retorted sharply, biting his lip in order to repress any number of furious remarks that were rising up inside him.

            “It does though, doesn’t it?” Sherlock nodded to himself, cooking his head slightly to the right and fixing those eyes, which looked like they belonged to a skull with the dark circles around them, upon John. “Why should my past instances with substances make you so angry?” John stood up quickly, releasing Sherlock’s arm which he had finished dressing and snatched up the first aid kit that he had used; what really riled John was the amusement present in Sherlock’s voice… How could any of this be funny? Was Sherlock really that heartless that he didn’t consider how his friends would feel upon finding him dead?

            “I thought we were mates.” John said through gritted teeth, his words coming out in a strangled tone. “You seem to know all there possibly is to know about me, yet when I think I know _anything_ about you I’m almost instantly proved to be wrong about that too!” John thrust the first aid kit back into its cupboard and slammed the door shut – in the silence that followed the sound of wood colliding with wood seemed to reverberate.

            “John-”Sherlock started slowly.

            “Hey I mean, we only share a flat, it’s not as though both of us need to share our life stories with each other!” John’s knees were shaking in this new rage that was pounding through his veins.

            “John, will you shut up for a second-” Sherlock tried to break over John again.

            “No, it doesn’t matter one iota that I might have come home and found you _dead_ , and had no idea why!” John literally spat in his rage, “You can be such a selfish _bastard!_ Nothing ever matters to you – you don’t give a damn about what other people think and feel! Mycroft is right; you need to stop acting like a fucking spoilt child!” John pounded his hand onto the kitchen counter he was standing next to; then suddenly he couldn’t stand it, he couldn’t stand being in the same room as Sherlock. All of his emotions were colliding like the waters of a whirlpool that wouldn’t stop spinning and intermingling until a place of stillness could be found; it was unbearable. John stormed from the room, hearing Sherlock calling his name as he thundered up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door shut and turned the key in the lock – effectively sealing himself off from Sherlock and the rest of the outside world. 


	5. One Last Time

             _‘You can be such a selfish bastard! Nothing ever matters to you – you don’t give a damn about what other people think and feel!’_

            The words rung in Sherlock’s ears long after they had burst forth from John’s lips. The venom which had been clear through them had been a little surprising. Sherlock hadn’t reckoned that such a forceful and sentimental reaction would have been produced by something that was hardly more than a passing pleasure. As that was exactly what the taking of those narcotics had been – Mycroft may have alluded to it as a “habit”, but to Sherlock it was nothing more than a passing fancy to break the monotony that his life had descended into recently. He couldn’t deny that he had given his word that he wouldn’t do it again – and a tiny twinge permeated his calm interior as he thought of Mummy’s reaction if she ever found out… but for John to expound that he was acting like a child, being purely self-serving in this deed, had touched a nerve with the consulting detective. He wasn’t addicted! He could stop any time he wanted! So… why then, hadn’t he already stopped?

            _‘Because I want to do it.’_ Sherlock justified it to himself stubbornly, _‘Because it is my choice and I enjoy it, so why shouldn’t I do something that I enjoy – it’s not like I’m hurting anyone else!’_ It was a weak argument.

            _‘It doesn’t matter one iota that I might have come home and found you dead!’_ He couldn’t escape from what John had said. Sherlock could feel himself frowning over the matter – if something had gone wrong, if he hadn’t just hallucinated… if he had actually had a reaction to the drugs, or aspirated, or something worse and ended up dead – what would John have thought? Would he have blamed himself for the death of his friend? Even if it was through the means of his own doing… There was no way of knowing, and Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to question John about it.

 _‘I could prove to him that I do give a damn, that I don’t want him to find me dead or something.’_ Sherlock considered, his heart feeling heavy inside his chest. ‘ _But it definitely means giving up something that I enjoy…’_ Sherlock sighed aloud and placed his head in his hands. _‘I will have to give it up…’_

            After sitting in deep meditative thought for a long time – the clock told him that he had been sitting thinking for almost an hour – he relaxed back into his chair.

 _‘Once more…’_ He suddenly thought, _‘One last time before I stop. One more time can’t do any more harm, especially if John is in the flat if anything was to go wrong.’_

            Sherlock moved silently, he collected his hypodermic syringe from the machinery which had been sterilising it, and picked up the leather case in which it belonged. Within this case he found a small amount of cocaine which he could dissolve very easily and quietly by using the gas stove. He hesitated while preparing what was to be his final fix – he could easily dispose of this drug right now without taking it, but the temptation of it right in front of him was too strong.

            Once completely dissolved, Sherlock took up his syringe and led his way, holding the needle carefully, back to his armchair. The syringe balanced upon the arm of his chair, he unzipped the leather case and unfolded a short length of black leather stip that Sherlock had come to use as his tourniquet. He rolled his sleeve and fastened the tourniquet around his arm so tightly that all of his veins leapt to the surface of his skin. Each one seemed to be begging to be picked for this great honour and Sherlock chose carefully, picking one that seemed as though it would be the least likely to collapse under use. His motions were swift – sliding the needle into the vein, barely even registering the prick as the needle broke the skin, and slowly pushing the liquid into his arm. Without leaving it for a moment, he was on his feet replacing his syringe back into the machinery that would sterilise it again, and once back in his armchair he unfastened the tourniquet and relished the warmth that spread through his body like wildfire. He tucked the leather strip back into the case and dropped it down beside the armchair; then le leant back into the chair, closing his eyes and allowing a smile to encompass his face.

            One last time… One last burst of unbelievable warmth and happiness…. Oh, if only John could understand the depth of this feeling that Sherlock was willing to give up to prove he did care…


	6. Resigned Affirmation

John’s stomach gave a particularly loud growl as he shifted from his side to his back. He stared forlornly up at the ceiling and tried to ignore the fresh pangs of hunger signalling from his stomach to his brain. Nearly four hours he had been locked in his room, through his own choice of course, but in the aftermath of yelling at Sherlock he had been so furious that he had stormed out of the room without taking the sandwich he had prepared for himself and as a result he was starving. In rifling through the pockets of old coats and jeans he had come across an unopened chocolate bar which he was convinced, at the time, was a Godsend – but after devouring it voraciously his hunger became even more pronounced. John had tried to distract himself from thinking about it; the same as he tried to distract himself from the situation with Sherlock. Every time John’s mind came back to Sherlock he could feel himself physically shaking – he wondered whether it was possible for his blood to literally boil. It enraged and infuriated him that Sherlock could take such a glib approach to something so serious. Once or twice John snorted as he remembered what Sherlock’s attitude could be to some of his clients during cases and reminded himself that he should never be surprised by Sherlock’s approach to anything…

            When John’s stomach growled for the fifth, and loudest, time he sat upright and flicked the switch on the lamp that was placed on his bedside cabinet. The room was illuminated with soft yellow lighting and John checked the time displaying on his alarm clock; 11:27pm: it wasn’t even midnight yet. He was physically exhausted from having been at work most of the day – but his stomach and brain combined weren’t going to give him the option of sleep until he had appeased them by getting something to eat. He sighed, swinging his feet round off the bed; he wondered what Sherlock had been doing in the past couple of hours – he hadn’t heard much noise so it couldn’t be anything overtly extraneous…

            John made his way down the flight of stairs that led down to the kitchen and living room, making sure to avoid the stair where the wood had completely splintered as a result of one of Sherlock’s mad experiments.

            In the doorway of the living room John stopped, he could clearly observe Sherlock sitting in his armchair, leaning back with his eyes closed. For an instant John felt satisfied that Sherlock had fallen asleep in his chair, but then his eyes fastened on Sherlock’s left sleeve cuff. All over again he couldn’t distinguish whether it was rage or disappointment that deluged his entire system; he wanted to turn away, to sulk in the kitchen until he could find food, then return to his room. But his feet didn’t want to move and before he could realise or stop himself he was speaking:

            “Done it again then, have you?” John was astounded at the balance and calmness in his voice, even his legs had stopped vibrating in emotion. It was like very suddenly all of his feelings about this matter had drained out of the bottom of his feet; he was numb. Sherlock’s eyelids raised slowly, but he was as completely alert as he normally was – this time the drugs had had no adverse reaction on his mind. John could feel Sherlock’s eyes surveying him up and down as he stood in the doorway.

            “Very observant John.” Sherlock replied, his voice was completely devoid of sarcasm which made John look even closer at his friend’s expression. Once he had satisfied himself that Sherlock wasn’t being sarky with him he took a couple more steps into the room.

            “Did nothing Mycroft or I said actually penetrate your mind?” John asked lightly, restraining himself from raising his voice in annoyance. “Or were you still so doped up that none of it registered?”

            “Quite the contrary.” He leant forwards in his chair, placing his elbows on the ends of his knees. “You can retrieve your sandwich if you’re that hungry by the way, it’s still where you left it.” John didn’t question how Sherlock had fathomed that he was hungry; it was probably because of something obscure like his feet being bare, so he ignored it and picked up his sandwich in the kitchen. He took a bite greedily, his stomach growling in appreciation as the taste of food whetted his appetite. “How did you notice?” Sherlock asked, interest perturbing his otherwise calm voice.

            “Your shirt cuff.” John answered through a mouthful of food, Sherlock’s eyebrow raised rather mischievously. “Your left cuff isn’t buttoned, why would you unbutton one sleeve and leave it that way when it would normally get in your way?”

            “Ingenious!” Sherlock explained, “Really, I don’t give you enough credit during cases! You’ve got quite a capacity for observation and deduction when you turn your mind that way.” John stopped chewing his sandwich abruptly and glared at Sherlock, he didn’t like that one bit – Sherlock was trying to flatter him, and probably distract him from the fact that he had just done exactly what Mycroft and him had warned him that he couldn’t continue. “Upon the matter of cocaine-” Sherlock started suddenly, somehow following John’s internal thoughts. “I’ve deeply considered what you and Mycroft spoke about earlier. I don’t necessarily see it as much of a problem like you two seem to…” John rolled his eyes; he had known that Sherlock would just bat away the episode from this afternoon as a piece of bad luck, or the result of a mood rather than the effect of the drug. “But I understand the concern…”

            “You can shove your concern if you’re not going to do anything about it.” John muttered bluntly, swallowing a particularly large bite of his sandwich. Sherlock squared himself in his chair, preparing himself for something that he clearly wasn’t comfortable with.

            “I’ll stop.” He stated firmly, “I thought that one last time couldn’t hurt – and besides, if I hadn’t used up the last of the cocaine I had it would be like throwing money away…” John was staring, open mouthed at Sherlock; was he certainly hearing right? Was Sherlock agreeing to get clean?

            “Mycroft said you’d done it before.” John started slowly.

            “Yes, three times just as he intimated.” Sherlock nodded, “Which unfortunately doesn’t reassure me that I can do it, but only reminds me of what it will feel like.” He pursed his lips together, his brows met together over his eyes and he stared at John with a kind of perturbed concentration.

            “You don’t want to though.” John placed his half eaten sandwich back onto the plate. “I can tell that by your face.”

            “I’ve already said that I don’t think it’s necessary, I know how to control it.” Sherlock responded firmly, “I told the same to Mycroft last time, detox is unnecessary; it was unnecessary in the past as well – I would have got clean myself when the time was right.” Sherlock seemed very assured in what he was saying, but it didn’t add up to what Mycroft had told him. Mycroft had suggested that Sherlock would probably have ended up dead if he hadn’t intervened when he had.

            “So you didn’t care whether you died last time?” John asked, Sherlock gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders indicating indifference. “Why? Did… did something happen to you, or…” John was grappling internally with so many questions that had come teeming into his mind. “I get that teenagers experiment… but sixteen? With a cocaine dependency?” John couldn’t help keep the quizzical tone out of his voice, Sherlock’s eyes had locked onto John and, for once, John thought he may have stumped Sherlock for an answer.

            “It was… it was intellectual.” Sherlock claimed, “It was something to do, and stimulating.”

            “Stimulating for your mind, but did you think about what it was doing to the rest of your body?” John’s medical mind was kicking in now, “What if you had a heart attack? Or an accident like you did today?”

            “Occupational hazard.” Sherlock replied lightly, “I had weighed the risks up in my head; the risks were disproportionate to the reasons for.”

            “Mycroft seemed- ”John started, but Sherlock cut over him.

            “Mycroft talks a lot of shit, he’s over exaggerating everything that happened in the past. I was never as bad as he thinks I was… The last time I never had the option, he just picked me up by the scruff of the neck and threatened me that he would ruin my livelihood or tell our parents if I didn’t comply with his wishes…” Sherlock spoke fast, like he was purging these thoughts from his mind and the faster he did it might help. “He _always_ tried to mother me – all through our childhood! I thought when he went away I would escape from all of that, but he just kept coming back over and over again. It’s not like I actually needed looking after, I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself by the time I went away to school. I didn’t need him poking his nose in all the time. The cocaine was a bit of fun, it was my thing; no one at school would bother me and I could just be. It’s not as though I cared whether I lived-” Sherlock cut himself short when he saw the expression on John’s face and he fell silent. His eyes had widened as he realised that he had been ranting cathartically about all of the past injustices he had felt against his brother; there was a very long silence. John had never heard Sherlock speak like that, with so much bitter resentment about his past, actually speak genuinely about his past; finally John cleared his throat:

            “So – uh, what’s changed?” John questioned, Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. “ _You’ve_ decided to stop this time, what’s changed?”

            Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again, then repeated this action. Speechless – John had truly made the consulting detective, who had a quick quip for every situation, speechless...

            “No particular reason.” He finally said; no matter how good an actor Sherlock could be when he assumed another persona, John could instantly tell that Sherlock was being deceptive. He lowered his eyes back to his sandwich and began to eat once more, but he could feel Sherlock’s gaze boring into him. Sherlock’s eyes could be so intense sometimes it felt like they could burn skin, so when John finished his sandwich and looked up he felt like every inch of him had been scorched. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling that he would quite like to sink into the earth out of sight. He wondered whether he had sat for long enough and if it would be acceptable for him to disappear up to his room and go to bed – it was likely now that his stomach was full that he’d be able to sleep.

            “Well?” Sherlock suddenly asked in a presumptious manner.

            “Well what?” John sighed.

            “Aren’t you going to inform my brother of my decision?” He asked as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

            “Why would I have to inform Mycroft?” John said.

            “Cause that’s what you are – his little informer – his means of keeping an eye on me without him being physically present.” Sherlock answered.

            “I – I – what?” John spluttered in indignation, “I’m not your keeper; your brother doesn’t pay me to watch over you!”

            “He offered to at one point.” Sherlock muttered very quietly, but John still heard every word. “If only you’d accepted that offer…”

            “Once, before I even knew who he was – before I really knew who you were.” John stated firmly, “But still – I’m not like a _nanny,_ or a housekeeper. I didn’t enter into a contract with Mycroft when I moved in; I’m yourflatmate and _your_ friend!” The moment the words had left John’s lips he felt a flush of heat come over him and he was positive that his face had turned scarlet. He stared pointedly at his bare feet until he heard Sherlock clear his throat.

            “Well – I, thank you John.” Sherlock looked slightly bashful; was it John’s imagination or had Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink?

            “Besides?” John started, wanting to change the subject as quickly as he could. “Mycroft probably knows your decision already through his telepathic omniscience – or whatever.” Sherlock snorted, which broke the tension between them instantly.

            “He’s probably got the flat bugged.” Sherlock casted offhandedly; John looked around nervously, he wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to bug the flat to try and keep an eye on Sherlock.

            “Hmm… right, well, on that slightly unnerving note, I’m going to bed.” John decided firmly, pushing himself out of his chair.

            “Night.” Sherlock mused, John didn’t even bother to ask whether Sherlock was going to go to bed – he guessed the answer would be no.

            Up in his room John noticed that the LED lights on his phone was flashing, indicating that there was a message on his phone. Climbing into bed he picked up his phone to check the messages;

_‘Has my brother come to a decision yet?-MH.’_

            John felt that unnerving, creeping sensation which he attributed to his wondering whether Sherlock’s statement about the flat being bugged was correct.

_‘Yes, he’s agreed to stop doing the drugs. –JW.’_

            John texted back, feeling more than a little annoyed at having denied that he was “Mycroft’s little informer” then becoming that role less than fifteen minutes later. John couldn’t prevent himself from yawning even though the bright glare from the phone screen was keeping his eyes wide open; he was so tired and he would have to be up to get ready for work in less than seven hours.

_‘I thought you would have that effect on him; well done John. I’ve arranged for someone to cover the rest of your time at the surgery, you’ll her from me at some point soon.-MH.’_

            John’s phone rang again, just as he was beginning to doze off, he groggily felt around for it and unlocked it. He stared blearily at the screen for several moments before actually taking any information in. Mycroft had arranged cover for the surgery – did that mean that he didn’t have to go in tomorrow?

_‘Arranged cover? What do you mean?-JW.’_

            John was desperately trying to keep himself awake so that he could read Mycroft’s reply. It came back within a minute, but it felt like it had been a long time in coming.

_‘I’ve handed in your notice and found a replacement for the rest of your time. I need someone to watch Sherlock to make sure he doesn’t try to trick us. –MH.’_

            John rubbed his face, how would – ah … it came to him all of a sudden – Sherlock, if he was true to his word and actually did come off the drugs, then he would need someone to keep an eye on him to make sure he wouldn’t cheat – and someone to help him through withdrawal… Mycroft had done it at least once, when Sherlock was sixteen, and it seemed that this time he had decided John was going to be the one to help.

            John sank back into his bed, placing his phone almost out of the reach of his hand so he wouldn’t be tempted to check it if it rang again, then he turned off the switch on his alarm clock so it wouldn’t wake him up at 06:30am. 


	7. Watching Him

            Even though John’s alarm clock didn’t wake him up, his internal body clock hadn’t seemed to accept that he was no longer working this morning and he woke with a jolt at 07:5am. It took him a few seconds for his brain to catch up with the electrical impulse that had woken him up. He groaned aloud and sat up in bed, considering for a moment the possibility of lying back down and going back to sleep, but the light streaming through the gap in his curtains made it impossible for his brain to switch off again. He might as well get up – it was better than lying in bed wide awake staring at the ceiling.

            John took his time showering, enjoying that he didn’t have to rush his morning routine as he had been doing in order to get to work on time; only getting out of the shower when the water began to run cold on him. It was as he was getting dressed that the enormity hit him; he was going to help Sherlock to go through withdrawal… but that was something he had never done before! He’d dealt with bullet wounds, shrapnel injuries and other violent injuries while in the army, and in surgeries nothing more interesting than the common cold or ear infections; but never anything like addiction – that wasn’t his area, it wasn’t his specialty. Mycroft clearly was an experienced hand and Sherlock know about it from having gone through it; but John was a complete novice to this field… and he’d have to learn about it – fast! He still had piles of old medical textbooks that he had used when he was a student, maybe there’d be some information hidden in a couple of them – or if that failed, the internet was sure to yield some answers and help… but John suddenly felt like he had frogs leaping about inside his stomach while considering the prospects of the task he was going to do. If it was anyone else he would have refused to do it, he knew that, but for Sherlock… he would try his best.

*

            Not a wink of sleep. Not an hour, or even a moment had Sherlock’s brain switched off during the night. He was still huddled in his armchair when he heard movement from the floor above, which must indicate John had woken up and was getting ready to go out for work. He was trying to figure out what he was going to do for the rest of today – because he knew that the effects of not taking the cocaine wouldn’t be felt until later on. At this moment he wasn’t particularly worried about the cocaine wearing off, but more concerned about the boredom creeping in… There must be something that he was able to do which would stop the mind numbing boredom which would try and draw him back into drugs. He could write a monograph on something, like those ancient Coptic texts that he had been trying to decipher a couple of weeks ago; or he could request some cold case evidence from Lestrade and try and solve them. Anything he could do while in the sanctuary of his flat – as he knew there would come a time when he wouldn’t be able to leave the flat for a while, or most likely wouldn’t be able to do very much on his own. Sherlock sighed, the monograph was sounding as though it would be the most exciting thing that he could get his hands on, so he would have to make do with that…

            John had made his way down the flight of stairs and into the kitchen without making any noise at all, and it was only the movement of John’s arm opening a cupboard that highlighted Sherlock’s attention. It was nearly 07:50am, John was going to be late for work if he didn’t leave now – but he seemed in no rush to leave, he didn’t even have his shoes on.

            Without realising it Sherlock had been watching John for several minutes as he moved around the kitchen, putting the kettle on and inspecting the loaf of bread to find slices that didn’t have flecks of mould through them. He had never noticed how fascinating it was just to observe John being normal; and not being annoyed or angry with himself for some reason or another. John’s face naturally assumed the smallest of frowns, not like he was actually thinking about something, it was just the formation in which his muscles relaxed; but Sherlock had never noticed that when he was doing his everyday activities, the lines on his face smoothed out and he looked younger. It was remarkable to note the military precision and bearing that John still commanded even after being out of the army for two years, like it was so deeply ingrained that it was part of John’s very being. There was a band of tightness running in a strip across the top of Sherlock’s shoulders, in a line to where his collarbones were situated and he hunched his shoulders to try and dispel it.

            “Morning.” John said, while waiting for the kettle to boil and the toaster to finish grilling his bead.

            “Morning.” Sherlock grunted in reply, his brain connecting with his mouth in a rather disgruntled manner. “Aren’t you late for work?” He questioned, trying not to sound overly concerned about John’s timetable.

            “No.” John replied, picking up the kettle as the switch clicked as it reached the boil and pouring its contents into a teapot. “Your brother has handed in my notice for me, and found a replacement for the surgery.” Sherlock bit his lip curiously as he was more than positive that John still had a week and a half at the surgery, but a wave of realisation broke over him very quickly. Mycroft had assigned John to the job of jailor, to make sure that he didn’t break his promise… “Would you like some toast?” John asked lightly, breaking into Sherlock’s thoughts, as he buttered a slice of toast.

            “No, thank you.” Sherlock responded curtly, although he was vaguely aware of a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach – but at this moment he wasn’t entirely positive that that was hunger… John brought Sherlock a cup of tea and placed it down in front of him. “So Mycroft’s been pulling strings in the background, has he?” Sherlock mused, “Told you that you are his informer.” John had just taken a bite of toast, but he stopped chewing to glare at Sherlock with a kind of resigned ‘you have to be right about everything’ look. “He acted very swiftly; you could have worked for today. I’m not going to be going anywhere, and I’ve got about another twenty-eight hours before anything starts happening, at the least.”

            “You know what your brother’s like.” John tried to bat off Sherlock’s look by changing the topic, but was intrigued by Sherlock’s statement that he would be alright for another day or so.

            “Yeah, I know exactly what Mycroft is like.” He nodded, still watching John very intently and being aware of an odd creeping sensation that was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

            _Already?!_ This early?! It had only been eight hours and forty seven minutes since his last fix, since the very last fix… but already the shivers had started; or were they shivers of a different kind? John was watching Sherlock, and noticed the look of intense concentration that passed over his face.

            “Everything alright?” He asked, popping the last piece of his toast into his mouth and rubbing his hands together – successfully distributing all of the crumbs onto his trousers.

            “What?” Sherlock blinked, clearly crashing into reality from his own world. “Oh, yeah, yeah – fine. As I said, another twenty-eight hours until anything happens.”

            _‘Twenty-eight hours.’_ John thought, _‘So twenty-eight hours to find out as much as I can about what is going to happen and how I can help.’_ He felt like his head was on a roller coaster, and he might just have to kill Mycroft for starting him on it. 


	8. Sneers, Methadone and Sleep

****

            “How long has he been asleep for?” John had arrived back from Tesco to find Mycroft Holmes standing outside the front door of his flat; he couldn’t be surprised – Mycroft had said he would be in touch, but sometimes John thought it would be nice to have a little bit of notice. John had let him into the flat, personally struggling under the weight of the shopping bags that he was carrying, and he proceeded in front of John up the staircase and into the living room. Sherlock was curled up in his armchair, his head rested on his hands and his chest rising and falling very steadily as he took deep breaths in and out as he slept.

            “Nearly eight hours now…” John replied laying down all of the bags in the kitchen, he would unpack them once he had regained the feeling back into his arms. “Unless he woke up while I was out shopping that is… He was asleep when I left.”

            “Good.” Mycroft stated, “That’s good.” He nodded in a very self-satisfied way, John didn’t ask what was ‘good’ about Sherlock having been asleep for so long as he was sure that he would be enlightened before long. He was correct. “It is much easier to speak rationally to you about what is going to occur in the next few days without Sherlock being consciously present.” Mycroft stood in the open plan entrance to the kitchen as John began to empty the shopping bags one at a time. “He hasn’t had any symptoms of withdrawal yet, has he?” Mycroft asked, the position in which he was standing made it possible for him to look directly at John in the kitchen, and Sherlock curled in the armchair.

            “No.” John replied, laying several packets of painkillers that he had bought to replenish his medical kit onto the kitchen table. “Well, none clearly present enough for me to notice or be able to identify.”

            “I brought you something which might help.” Mycroft informed John, drawing out a brown glass medication bottle from inside his waistcoat; John eyed it very suspiciously.

            “If that’s methadone then I refuse to use it.” John had stopped unpacking the shopping and was staring at the bottle. “Methadone hasn’t been proven to successfully treat cocaine dependence, and it can be addictive as the drug it’s meant to help the addict wean off of.” This much John had learnt from researching withdrawal within his medical textbooks and new articles that had been published online in the time since he had been a student – all of which he had made a point of studying in the past two days since he had come to the realisation that he was going to have to help Sherlock through a detox. By all resources it seemed like cold turkey, although the harshest way to go about it, was the most successful method of getting clean. And John had decided for Sherlock that that was what he was going to help him do.

            “That’s your decision, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft said, sounding as though he thought this decision to be a very reckless one. “But do you really understand what Sherlock going cold turkey will be like? I think he has been taking a lot more cocaine that he would ever admit to and, unlike you, I know full well what his withdrawal will be like.”

            “Alright Mycroft.” John snapped in some annoyance, feeling frustrated at the unhelpfulness of Sherlock’s older brother. “Enough of the lectures, I am a doctor – I don’t think anything that could happen would shock or worry me. I can deal with Sherlock.” John was surprised at the fierceness of his own words, especially as they seemed to be intimating exactly the opposite of what he was feeling… Mycroft surveyed John for a long few moments; piercing right through the determined exterior and making John feel so uncomfortable that he shifted from one foot to the other.

            “I’m glad you think so.” Mycroft spoke coldly, his tone implying that he didn’t believe John at all, but this chilly eminence made John to do what he had stated he could. “I’ll leave that here,” Mycroft indicated towards the glass bottle still on the table, “Just in case you need it. And if you find you need anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know.” Mycroft Holmes turned to leave with some asperity playing across his features, but John’s head had been so stuffed full of questions that he knew he had to ask someone about the issues that had been plaguing his mind – and Mycroft was the best person that John could ask.

            “Mycroft…” John started, feeling incredibly awkward about how to ask some of these questions, but knowing full well that some of them _had_ to be asked. “Do… do you know why Sherlock started to use cocaine?” John percepted the stiffening of all Mycroft’s muscles as they tensed at the question.

            “No.” He answered curtly and, John was sure of it, deceptively. “That is something that Sherlock has never expounded upon once he has been clean. Nothing I have ever asked him, or ever requested of him has brought a satisfactory answer forth from his lips – he remains stubbornly silent upon the matter. However, I don’t believe for an instant that they are and have always been ‘purely intellectual’.” John breathed out slowly, Mycroft was confirming something that he had been thinking about often – that there was deeper reasons for Sherlock’s cocaine habit.

            “So…” He felt even more awkward, and was sure that Mycroft would find the next question insulting at the least, and probably infuriating. “Nothing… Nothing happened to him when he was younger? Nothing that might have led to this?” John was surprised when Mycroft made no reaction whatsoever to this question.

            “I… do not know.” Mycroft replied very slowly, his eyes resting upon his sleeping younger brother. “If… something happened, then Sherlock never told me about it. I suspect that if something had happened, he wouldn’t have told anyone about it.” Mycroft had turned his eyes back to John, and the deep thoughtful sparkle that had surfaced within Mycroft’s eyes were so reminiscent of his brother’s that it startled John. “I may never know.” There was particular emphasis upon the word ‘I’, and John looked confidently back at Mycroft. Then eventually Mycroft’s head jerked slightly to the right and the uneasy eye contact between the two was broken. “I must go now, I’m late for an appointment. If you require my advice or presence then send me a message and I’ll do my best to help.” Mycroft was getting away from this strange placement as quickly as he could; John couldn’t blame him.

            It was strange, John was unsure of what to expect next. For the past two days, since he had arrived home to find Sherlock hallucinating upon the floor, he felt like every nerve in his body was on tenterhooks. He had never seen Sherlock sleep for so long; eight hours was a very long time, especially for the consulting detective, curled up in that chair – John had considered waking him up and telling him to go to his bed cause surely that would be much more comfortable… but waking an already irritable Sherlock, who was going through a period of withdrawal that he wasn’t too keen on partaking upon individually, made John leave Sherlock sleeping in his chair. He was very peaceful when he was sleeping; life was never dull when Sherlock was about, but the notable absence of sleep which consistently lingered about him was always slightly concerning. John had known Sherlock to go five days without any sleep while he was working on a case – even at the remonstrances around him (mainly John) – but it did appear that his brain became much sharper during the deprivation of sleep. John also knew that once Sherlock had finished those cases that he would crawl into bed and not resurface for a few days until he had gained back all of his former strength. But John had never encountered Sherlock sleeping for a prolonged period during the day, in the middle of the living room. For some nonsensical and undefinable reason the fact that Sherlock was asleep made John feel restless.

            As he continued to unpack what he had purchased at the supermarket he paused after putting away every second item to re-check whether Sherlock was still asleep. He tried to reassure himself that it was because he was a doctor and it was within the duties of a doctor to check on their patients, which was the category that Sherlock fell under at this moment. John found himself inspecting his friend from a distance. It didn’t yet look as though not having taken the drug for almost a day and a half was having any effect upon Sherlock – maybe he had been right, maybe it hadn’t been as big a deal as Mycroft and he had made out. John had never given any real thought to Sherlock’s features before – but as he studied Sherlock’s face as he stood next to the open fridge, with a carton of orange juice in one hand, that Sherlock really did command the air of aristocracy in the way his facial features fit together. High predominant cheekbones were the first thing that struck anyone who met Sherlock; a long straight nose which led to the clear nasion in between his eyebrows; his lips were a very pale pink shade which was equal to the colour which rouged lightly across his pale cheeks; all of these separate components when added together combined into a very regal looking character. Perhaps that was why most people treated Sherlock with a reasonable amount of respect, even when they were meeting him for the first time – or maybe that was just the effect of his reputation.

            A blast of cold air upon John’s face brought him back to his senses and realise that he was still standing with the door open. Mentally scolding himself for having been stood staring at Sherlock for so long, he placed the carton of orange juice inside the fridge. He had been doing that more often lately – staring at Sherlock – for no real reason, but he had begun to catch himself doing it and pull his mind back, but he could never prevent the flush of embarrassment and the colouring of his cheeks that accompanied that realisation.

            Once John had finished stocking the cupboards with the items that he had bought at Tesco he turned his attention to food. It was nearly half past six in the evening and John was _famished_. There was no doubt in his mind that when Sherlock woke up he would be hungry also. Even if he refused to being hungry John wasn’t going to give Sherlock the option – he was going to eat. He turned into the kitchen, his back to Sherlock as he placed saucepans upon the stove and brought water to boil within them; his mind wandering through various different subjects, from food to what tv programme he could watch this evening without Sherlock screaming irately at one of the characters for some reason or other.

            A noise was omitted from the room behind where John was cooking, but John dismissed it as maybe Sherlock rousing from his sleep – if that was the case then John was sure he would hear about it fairly promptly. There was another noise, a scuffling and then what sounded like a mug falling to the floor – John laid down the wooden spoon he was using on the counter and moved to the archway which joined the kitchen to the living room. Sherlock was still curled up within his chair, his eyes were still closed; but his face was more tense, the right side of his face was twitching quite rapidly and repeatedly. John wondered whether Sherlock was dreaming, but that thought was confirmed within a matter of seconds. Sherlock’s whole body convulsed through a violent shudder and he let out a moan, still asleep.

            “I don’t – please don’t…” He mumbled quietly, his arms drawing around his knees and hugging them in close to his chest. “Please, I don’t want to…” The words that were coming out of Sherlock’s mouth sounded very different from his normal speech tone; it struck John that this sleeping version of Sherlock that was speaking sounded like a whiny child.

            “Sherlock… “ John spoke calmly, trying to bring Sherlock to consciousness without having to physically shake or prod him. “Sherlock? Wake up?” Sherlock tousled in his sleep, but did not wake up.

            “Do – do I, why do I have to? No, no, please!” Sherlock’s muttering had risen to an anxious tremor. “Please, no… don’t make me!” The fear present within Sherlock’s voice rattled through John like an electrical bolt through a conductive element. Just speaking wasn’t going to wake him up, he would have to physically awaken Sherlock; mainly because he couldn’t stand to hear the terror that was ringing rife in his friend’s voice. How could something scare Sherlock that much, even in his sleep, that would reduce the rebust mental power to that of a whimpering child? John felt that whatever it was, it couldn’t be good – and by waking Sherlock up, he would be saving him from the dream. He could put up with irascible Sherlock, he would even pick irritable Sherlock over a terrified childlike asleep Sherlock!

            “Sherlock,” John bent over his friend, who was still twitching, and placed his hands lightly upon Sherlock’s shoulders. “Sherlock, wake up.” Sherlock woke with a massive start, the look of fear and terror which was intense on his face didn’t vanish as he woke. It seemed like for a moment that Sherlock was disorientated and didn’t know where he was, or – what scared John most – who John was! There was a fearful childish vulnerability rapt in his eyes, until after a second a glaze covered over them and eh appeared to come to his senses, the normal Sherlock that John was used to. “Are you alright Sherlock?” John asked, removing his hands from Sherlock’s shoulders.

            “I’m – I’m fine.” Sherlock replied huskily, his throat was dry and he coughed slightly, straightening himself up in his chair. How long had he been sleeping? Good lord! Nearly nine and three quarter hours! No wonder he had a crick in his neck from sitting squashed up in his chair; he was about to open his mouth to reprimand John for letting him sleep for so long in such an uncomfortable position, but then he caught sight of the look upon John’s face. John looked worried, more than the usual concern that was often on his face when he looked at John, and a little bit frightened.

            “You were talking in your sleep…” John said slowly, his words as tentative as though he was taunting a wild animal.

            “Oh really, was I?” Sherlock replied forcing himself to sound carefree, but internally wracking his brains for what he could possibly have been dreaming about for him to speak aloud. Very unexpectedly Sherlock felt a sharp spasm of pain in his abdomen and chest, he screwed his eyes closed and ground his teeth together until the stream of pain had vanished. There was a noise from the kitchen which sounded like the hiss of steam from a kettle and then it sounded like John had retreated from the living room.

            “Sherlock?” Sherlock snapped his eyes open quickly and looked at John.

            “Yes?” He snapped, hearing the sharp tone of voice that came out of his mouth.

            “Food’s nearly ready.” John told him. “And you’re going to have some.” It was an order; an order which Sherlock didn’t object to. John had cooked – he hadn’t cooked in a long time, and no matter how much food usually didn’t interest Sherlock, the smell was making his mouth water. “Here you go.” Sherlock heard the chink of a plate being laid down on the table, and then the rattling of cutlery. As he stood up he felt a nearly overcoming wave of dizziness pass over him, and he realised that his arms and legs were shaking quite badly as he made his way to the table. He sat down and took up his fork, John mirroring his actions at the other side of the table.

            John watched Sherlock in a state of apprehension and slight surprise as the food on the plate began to rapidly disappear from Sherlock’s plate. John chewed his food slowly, they were now definitely past the twenty eight hours that Sherlock had predicted before anything would happen… So, why wasn’t anything happening? Or was Sherlock maybe feeling the effects and concealing it, very effectively, from John?

            “Sherlock?” John began, swallowing a mouthful of food.

            “Mmm?” Was Sherlock’s reply as he continued to pile forkful after forkful of food into his mouth with almost alarming rapidity.

            “Are you alright?” It seemed like a stupid question, John was sure that he probably could have put it into more medical terminology if he had to, but Sherlock picked up on the hidden meaning within John’s question.

            “I’m not particularly suffering.” He answered. “Maybe I was right, that I didn’t need to detox because I was perfectly alright as I was.” He had a touch of scathing in his voice, John shifted uncomfortably – that was what he had been fearing, that Mycroft and himself had created a situation that wasn’t necessary to be in. “I’m fine.”

            “You… you would let me know if you needed anything, wouldn’t you?” John inquired, his eyes focusing on the back of Sherlock’s hand that was holding his fork – it was trembling slightly.

            “Yes.” Sherlock replied, but how trustworthy his answer could be John didn’t want to question.

            “You’re shaking.” John pointed out, Sherlock looked down at his own hands.

            “Unfortunately yes…” He pulled back the sleeve of the arm which he hadn’t been using to inject on quickly, his whole arm was covered in raised goosebumps. “Shaking hands, shaking legs, shivers, goose bumps. Textbook inferences of the start of withdrawal… would you not say, doctor?”

            “Sherlock, you know better than I do about what a ‘textbook’ case is – this isn’t anything I’m used to dealing with.” John admitted in resignation, he placed his fork down onto the table next to his plate. “I’m used to violent injuries, dismembered body parts blown to shreds by landmines, or artillery injuries… addiction is not something I really had any experience with as an army doctor.” John sighed, Sherlock frowned as he saw a subtle expression appear in John’s eyes – sadness? Or regret?

            “Great, so I’m being looked after by a doctor that doesn’t even know what is going to happen.” Sherlock tried to steer the conversation away from these murky planes, but the words that came out sounded like a sneer of indignation.

            “Do you want to tell me what is going to happen so I know what to expect?” John requested politely.

            “No.” Sherlock said.

            “Why not?”

            “Because I’m already going to have to go through it, I don’t want to place any more thought on it than I have to.” He answered, finishing his last mouthful of food and then laying his fork down onto the empty plate. John had picked up his own fork and poked the remaining food on his plate for several moments, lost in thought, when he looked up Sherlock was covering a yawn with his hand.

            “Are you still tired?” The words had burst from John’s mouth before he could stop them; Sherlock fixed John with an insolent stare. John cowered slightly, as he knew the amount of sleep Sherlock normally sufficed with, the nearly nine hours he had achieved today would have normally served to make up for those lost hours.

            “No, my brain is just overheating and trying to dispel the excess heat through yawning.” He said, stifling yet another yawn.

            “Right… well I’m guessing that your overheating brain won’t be up to doing very much, so what are you going to do now?” John was aware that he was practically smothering Sherlock in his attempt to look after him; he was “mother-henning”, but at this point he genuinely didn’t care. In the time that Sherlock had been sat across from him the trembling of his hands had been increasing noticeably.

            “I’m going to go to bed I think.” Sherlock responded, pushing his chair back from the table. “Maybe I’ll be able to ride this one out by sleeping through it!” Sherlock chuckled slightly, but the undertone of longing was ironically present. This feeble attempt to brush this off in a humorous manner made John wonder whether Sherlock’s hardened defences were weakened. Sherlock rubbed one of his hands over his face, his fingers lingering at his eyes. “Right, I’m going.”

            “If you need anything just shout.” John offered sheepishly, Sherlock paused at the door as he was leaving.

            “Thanks John.”

 


	9. Inarticulate Pain

Sherlock hadn’t even finished climbing the set of stairs up to the landing that his bedroom was situated on when a fuzzy darkness started to roll in from the corner of his eyes. Using one outstretched hand he supported himself against the wall of the hallway, other hand searching for the door handle of his room. He collapsed in a very ungainly way onto the top of the bed, his head swimming with light and darkness. He couldn’t stop a groan escaping his mouth as he covered his eyes with his arm, nestling his nose just at the crook of his elbow. This was it starting – these were withdrawal symptoms actually beginning to take hold of his body properly. He had promised he would stop, that he would prove to John and Mycroft that he could go without cocaine; but now he was here, now he was feeling the effects of that promise he wished he had never made it. One more fix wouldn’t hurt, would it? And it would obliterate the way he was feeling right now… but that really _would_ make him an addict – medicating the way he felt without cocaine with more drugs, that was the way an addict acted… Besides, he had said he would stop. _Why_ had he decided that he should stop? As the last vestiges of his strength were leaving him and he was surrendering to sleep he remembered exactly why he had said he would stop: _John._

            Usually the hypnopompic transition was one full of calm peace – as certain parts of the brain were still apathetic in function and the dream world of sleep would begin to fade and be replaced by the solidity of the real world – so by the time Sherlock opened his eyes his brain was completely attuned to whatever task he needed to address. But not today.

            “Oh good lord…” Sherlock moaned aloud, not even aware he was speaking, but the pain which was crushing through every nerve in his body made him care little about the world around him. His whole body was on fire, flames rippling and tearing through his veins and muscles in torrential cramps. Despite the burning pain, Sherlock could feel himself shivering as though the room around him was in minus temperature; this also contradicted the knowledge that his bed covers were swathed tightly around him. He groaned aloud again as a fresh spasm of cramp seized his muscles.

            Sherlock had no method of telling how long he laid there for, his eyes closed and his body alternating between fierce pain and uncontrollable shivering. After what felt like an hour, or longer, Sherlock couldn’t put up with it any longer – he had always believed he had a high pain threshold, but he couldn’t remember his past detoxes causing this amount of pain. He opened his mouth and let out a half yell, half shriek:

            “ _John!_ ” The name reverberated around his room, and certainly must have been loud enough to be heard in the living room down stairs.

            It was quarter to twelve; John had just retired to his bedroom with a night time cup of tea – considering whether he should check on Sherlock before finally turning in when he heard the diabolical yell from the bedroom above his own. Almost dropping his tea cup in agitation he made instantly to rush to Sherlock’s room. Upon opening the door and flicking on the light Sherlock let out a hiss reminiscent of a cat having its tail trodden on.

            “Turn the light off! Please!” He rasped, without even opening his own eyes; John obeyed instantly, turning the light off and shrouding the room in darkness once more. But the fleeting moments which the light had been on had given John long enough to get a clear view of his friend. Sherlock was wrapped tightly in his duvet, but his face was an ashen pale colour unlike of which John had ever seen.

            Crossing the room slightly cautiously as his eyes were not accustomed to the dark, he reached the bedside.

            “Sherlock, I’m going to turn your lamp on so I’ve got some light.” He informed him, his hand groping for the switch of the lamp which sat on the bedside table. Sherlock let out a groan as the dim yellow light illuminated the room, and John observed that he shuddered rather violently.

            “John… I – I…” He struggled to get words out, his teeth were chattering together and the tone of his voice was strained, indicating to John that there was pain involved. “I need – something… please, the pain.” The words were disjointed and rather pleading. John’s heart rate had sped up in his chest as he heard his friend fighting to get words out when usually he was the most articulate of human beings.

            “Where is the pain?” John asked cautiously as his friend’s nerves already seemed to be pushed to an unbearable extent which he didn’t want to provoke further. He leant against the side of Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock was wrapped tightly in his covers, but John instantly noticed the sheen of sweat present upon Sherlock’s brow, and could almost feel the waves of heat irradiating from the supine man.

            “Everywhere!” Came the venomous reply through gritted teeth; he convulsed again and John could hear his breathing becoming more erratic.

            “Okay, it’s alright Sherlock.” John attempted to use his comforting doctor’s voice, but the concern for his friend was pressing. “I’ll be back in a second Sherlock – I’m just going to grab my kit from downstairs.” John bolted from the room down the stairs to the kitchen and grabbed his medical kit bag, then a thought struck him and he filled up a glass of water to take up for Sherlock. Taking both items up the stairs as carefully and quickly as he could, he re-entered the dimness of Sherlock’s room to find his friend with his eyes open, vainly attempting to push himself up, but his arms were shaking too greatly for him to be able to use them properly. “Stay still Sherlock,” John told him, he placed the palm of his hand squarely onto Sherlock’s forehead to get an indicator, however medically inaccurate, of Sherlock’s temperature. It was through the roof; no wonder he was absolutely dripping in sweat and feeling so bad! “You’re burning up.” John stated, pulling the covers away from their tight position around Sherlock’s chest. “Sherlock, I’m going to take off some of the layers you’ve got on so you can cool down.” John removed the duvet cover completely from around Sherlock, and maneuvered his limp arms out of his blue silk dressing gown.

            “John… please… make the pain go away?” John felt tingles down his spine as Sherlock pleaded, his dull eyes staring up at John.

            “I’m going to try Sherlock, I’m going to do my best, just hold on…” John pacified him as best as he could. He eventually stripped Sherlock down to just his boxer shorts, then laid a thin blanket on top of him – he was still shaking as though he was out in the cold, but the sweat that was dripping off of him was drenching the sheet underneath him. The image of his semi-naked, painfully thin friend lying on his bed with a fevered flush colouring him and alternating convulses and shivers wracking through his entire body struck an agonizing chord, and he was sure he would never be able to erase that image that was imprinted in his mind. “I’m going to give you paracetomol Sherlock, that should help with the pain and bring your temperature down too.” John spoke aloud even though Sherlock was so listless that he knew it wasn’t registering in his mind. John slid his arm underneath the shoulder blades of his friend, dimly aware that Sherlock was literally drenched in torrents of sweat; he helped pull Sherlock into an upright sitting position. Sherlock groaned loudly in protest to this movement, but John ignored it; “Sherlock, open your mouth.” John said calmly, and he was very thankful that Sherlock complied with the orders he gave. He opened his mouth so John could place the two tablets inside; John raised the glass of water to Sherlock’s lips and prompted him to take a drink. Sherlock shuddered as he swallowed the tablets and liquid and John carefully lowered him back so he was lying down on the bed.

            Now he had successfully managed to administer some painkillers to Sherlock, he took out his digital thermometer as to get a more accurate reading of Sherlock’s temperature. The thermometer gave a reading of 38.3 degrees centigrade – no wonder Sherlock was drenched in sweat! His fever couldn’t get much higher without it having the possibility of causing direct brain damage, damage that wouldn’t be able to be recovered from. John was biting his lip, watching Sherlock closely; if this was any other patient he wouldn’t have hesitated to call for an ambulance already, but it was different because it was Sherlock... _Because_ it was Sherlock, John wanted to do all in his power to keep him out of hospital, but also make him better again.

            John pulled across the only chair in Sherlock’s room to the bedside and sat down in it, trying his best not to disturb Sherlock, as he seemed to be wandering in and out of consciousness – possibly teetering on the edge of sleep. John would sit here and wait, and watch… If he kept an eye on Sherlock’s temperature and what was going on with him then he’d be able to act and phone for an ambulance if he really needed to. 


	10. Night Vigil

             _‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.’_ John kept repeating over and over inside his mind from the moment that he sat in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed. It was a frantic repetition of the knowledge that he was way out of his depth in this situation. Maybe he should have been less snippy to Mycroft, maybe he shouldn’t have been so sure that he would be able to cope through whatever Sherlock was going to go through. His stubborn insistence that he was a doctor, and would surely be more than qualified to look after Sherlock, seemed like a mistake now. He had devolved back down into the form he had been while a medical student; a nervous timorous creature, scared of everyone and everything. John was leaning forwards in his chair – towards the edge of Sherlock’s bed – with his eyes closed, taking breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He was the one who should be able to deal with this: he was a doctor for God’s sake! This was exactly what doctors did – look after people when they were ill or injured. It’s what he would have spent his career doing if he hadn’t gone into the army; he would have either tried to set himself up a private practise as a GP, or ended up as a consultant in a hospital department. It was strange thinking about how different his life could have been if he hadn’t gone into the army – he could have been earning an awful lot more than he was just now, but he would have had to specialise into an area… What area would he have gone into? Definitely not paediatrics, he had never been much of a person for kids; he wouldn’t have gone into psychiatry… That he had always regarded as too much of a “fake” medical student. Maybe he would have gone down the cardiovascular route, looking at the heart and lungs; or maybe neuroscience; or maybe he would have gone for an A&E specialist post… so many maybes, so many choices! It seemed like going into the army had made his decision simpler, he hadn’t had to choose to specialise in any particular subject. He had been trained in emergency battlefield medicine and aid in his army tutelage, and that was all he had needed. So really, he had become a doctor yet not had an awful lot of hands on contact with the general public, he had been used to helping other soldiers in moments of great pain and agony. He had seen grown men, strong soldiers who weren’t scared of anything, cry out for their mothers while in pain; people were reduced to their most human state while in pain, illness or distress… And suddenly John Watson, who was sitting by his best friend’s bedside, felt incredibly stupid.

            Sherlock was the most stubborn and strong willed of men, both physically and mentally, and just now he was full of pain… The same way that those soldiers used to return to the basal mind-set of all humans, a small scared child unsure of what was going to happen next, was what was happening to Sherlock. But never before in all his time in the army, in being confronted with a patient whose arm or leg had just been blown off, or someone who had been shot, his stomach had never felt so tight inside him and his heart had always ceased beating so rapidly once the first adrenaline rush had passed, but not with Sherlock. His mind and body was on constant red alert as Sherlock was lying unconscious in his bed.

            John was nodding in his chair, desperate to stay awake in case his patient woke up and needed him, but so far Sherlock had not even so much as stirred from where he was lying; the most movement he had made was that of his leg twitching. John was beginning to struggle though, although mentally he was alert because of the task in hand, physically his body was flagging.

            At twenty past two he had decided that he was going to leave Sherlock sleeping and go and make a cup of tea for himself, perhaps collect his book from the living room, and bring it back up to the room – anything that would keep him awake until Sherlock had woken up again and confirmed that he was feeling better. The movement in the room as he stood up out of his chair obviously registered in Sherlock’s subconscious because he moved, scuffling about underneath the blanket that John had put on top of him. John froze at the bottom of the bed, watching to see if Sherlock did anything more than stir… After a long moment in which the silence of the flat seemed to ring in John’s ears Sherlock stopped moving and seemed to decide to remain still and settle back to sleep. Once he was sure that Sherlock’s subconscious had calmed down again he tiptoed out of the room and into the hallway landing.

            Returning with his cup of tea and book, he sat back down into the chair he had been occupying, but Sherlock tossed underneath his blanket again.

            “Mmmm….” Sherlock mumbled as he turned over in his sleep, “John…” John’s heart leapt to attention as his name was spoken forth from Sherlock’s sleeping lips and he moved instantly so he was right beside the bed. Lightly he placed his palm upon Sherlock’s forehead again, the intensity of the heat radiating from him had dulled slightly, but it was still warmer than what John knew it should be. “John…” Sherlock breathed.

            “It’s okay Sherlock, I’m here.” John responded soothingly, without even thinking of his words. Sherlock drew in a huge deep breath and exhaled heavily as John, rather absent mindedly, stroked the side of Sherlock’s face. Then he came to his senses and withdrew his hand; Sherlock was still asleep – his habit of talking in his sleep was becoming vastly increased. His fever was decreasing – that had to be a good sign for John, maybe if it came down to a normal temperature then he would be able to take a nap also.

            _‘I’ll check his temperature again in half an hour.’_ John thought to himself, clocking the alarm lying on the table; it was now 02:53am. The less that John thought about the time the less tired he felt, so he opened his book and found the page at which he had last left it – this attempt would keep his mind busy while he waited for half an hour to check upon Sherlock’s temperature.

            John’s head snapped up and his eyes opened very suddenly, he had fallen asleep in his chair and only woken once his grip had loosened on his book and it had slipped to the floor, making a thump which woke him. The clock now read 04:39am; he must have been asleep for quite a while.

            Sherlock himself had been awake for just over quarter of an hour. He had come to consciousness dimly aware that his feet felt cold, but also that he was longer being wracked by horrible cramps and spasms. Weakly he had pushed himself upright against the headboard of the bed, mentally noting that his feet were stuck out the end of a blanket, and that he was virtually naked; the only thing he was still wearing was his boxer shorts. His memories of earlier on tonight were fuzzy, there had been too much pain to fully register all that had been going on around him – but then he spotted John sitting in a chair pulled up to the left side of Sherlock’s bed, head resting down on his chest and a book held loosely in his hand. His slow breathing evidently indicated that John was asleep – but Sherlock realised that John must have sat himself here as a vigil for Sherlock, to make sure that he was alright… Despite the shaky feeling that was coursing through him, Sherlock was very thankful that John was what he was, that he cared enough to make sure that Sherlock wasn’t quietly (or probably not so quietly) dying in his room. Sherlock drew his knees up so that the flats of his feet were upon the mattress of the bed and laid his head almost upon his knee caps. The intense pain that had set upon him earlier had all but evaporated, leaving behind a weakness that made him feel like he was recovering from a bout of the flu, or recovering from just being run over by a steam roller being driven by an elephant. The pain was gone, but in its place was a kind of unsettling queasiness… Sherlock vaguely heard a thump from somewhere inside the room, out the corner of his eye he detected movement from the chair next to his bed.

            “Sherlock? Are you aware?” John’s voice floated into Sherlock’s consciousness so he raised his head off his knees, but the light in the room was swimming in front of his eyes in an unpleasant rippling formation that did nothing to decrease the nausea that he was feeling. John moved from his chair and sat down on the side of the bed that he was nearest to, Sherlock could feel the mattress descending a few inches with the increased weight. John had scooped up his thermometer and proceeded to gently take Sherlock’s temperature now he was awake, however unresponsive he was: 37.9 degrees – well at least his fever was coming down, even just gradually. “Sherlock, how are you feeling?”

            Stupid question; why did John always have to ask stupid questions? Sherlock tried to engage his brain to create a response to John’s question, but the only sound his currently fevered, delirious brain could produce was: “Mmmffmmm.”

            “Your temperature has come down a bit, are you thirsty?” John was peering into Sherlock’s face in a manner which slightly frustrated the detective, now only if his brain would start working in counterpart with his mouth. In the time being he managed an inarticulate shrug, which could have meant yes or no, but John took it as a yes, raising the glass of water that he had filled for Sherlock to the younger man’s lips. Sherlock took a great gulp of water and nearly choked upon it – after spluttering for a few seconds he calmed down, leant back against the headboard of the bed and closed his eyes. There was a long silence as Sherlock inhaled and exhaled in a steady fashion, trying to calm down the whirling feeling that was present even when he had his eyes closed.

            “Have…” Sherlock started very slowly, the words quiet and hoarse; he coughed to clear his throat. “Have you been sat in here since…?” He coughed again and John presented him with the glass of water once more.

            “I’ve been, observing you… I wanted to make sure I didn’t need to call an ambulance for you, you were really burning up.” John explained with a sheepish expression on his face. “You were this close to me taking you to hospital.” John held up his fingers in an indication of how close it was, but Sherlock was struggling to focus upon John’s hand. A wave of heat swept down from the top of Sherlock’s head right the way down through his arms and legs, accompanied by a shiver. John was right next to Sherlock on the bed, he had been looking away from Sherlock at the cold dregs of his tea and feeling a little embarrassed about having been sat there for so long. He felt the shudder that ran through Sherlock’s body, and then very suddenly he felt the heaviness of Sherlock’s head drop onto his shoulder. This tiny little action startled John as it was so completely out with the normal character which Sherlock displayed. “Sherlock?” John asked suddenly, “Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John turned as best as he could, bringing his hands up to cup the bottom of Sherlock’s face. His skin was clammy to John’s touch and his eyes were still closed. “You have to speak to me Sherlock; I need to know what’s wrong so I can help you.” John tapped lightly upon Sherlock’s cheek, “Sherlock?”

            “Mmmm…. Oh… god…” Sherlock maundered, his head was lolling about in John’s hands, as though he was the only thing holding it upright. “Oh my god… John?”

            “Yes Sherlock?” John asked quickly, embracing the new consciousness that Sherlock seemed to be displaying.

            “John?” Sherlock susurrated as another shudder extrapolated the whole of his body. “John… John, I don’t feel so good…”

            “Not good in what way?” John inquired, looking Sherlock up and down much more intently now, taking in every single sign that could be a symptom – but at the moment the whole of Sherlock was one big symptom. “Sherlock, open your eyes – look at me.”

            Why was he so demanding? Why now, when Sherlock felt like his brain was about to implode in on itself, did John have to ask him to do things that were impossibilities? Sherlock groaned in objection to what he was being asked of him.

            “No, come on Sherlock.” John said firmly. Very slowly, with his blood pounding in his ears, Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to bring John into focus while the rest of the world around him gyrated like a never ending merry-go-round. “Is it your head? Or do you feel sick?”

            “Both.” The word was more mouthed than spoken, but John picked it up perfectly. Sherlock was furiously resisting the overcoming blackness coaxing him towards passing out, leaning towards John in exactly the same way that a small child leans towards their parent when looking for comfort. Not typical Sherlock behaviour in any respect… He was so close that John could hear him breathing heavily, then a small whimper escaped from between his lips – and as it did, John’s heart rate doubled in speed. This was wrong, this was not Sherlock.

            “Come on Sherlock; use that magnificent cerebral cortex of yours.” John willed him, “I need you to describe how you’re feeling.”

            “The room… spinning…” Sherlock mumbled, forcing the words out with some difficulty, John noted that one of Sherlock’s hands had moved to his stomach.

            “It’s alright Sherlock. Do you think you’re going to be sick? Do you want to go to the bathroom?” John was trying his best to remain calm, but he couldn’t stop from feeling that Sherlock was shaking; Sherlock suddenly looked like a young child and he shook his head slightly.

            “John?” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper and now definitely sounded as though it was that of a six or seven year old, rather than a thirty-something year old. “I’m sorry…”

            “No, don’t apologize.” John commanded, “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Sherlock had closed his eyes again, he was still leaning against John for support and was swallowing rapidly repeatedly. “Sherlock? Are you sure-” John cut his sentence as at that moment Sherlock’s body convulsed and he gagged. “Okay Sherlock, come on.” John snapped instantly into action, leaping to his feet and pulling Sherlock off the bed, taking the full weight of his friend. He could feel Sherlock’s body shaking so severely, that John marvelled at how he was managing to remain upright at all. John thanked God in this moment that the bedrooms were en suite and that he didn’t have to venture to the toilet down the stairs with Sherlock in tow.

            “John…” Sherlock’s voice was quivering almost as much as his physical form. “I think I’m going to be sick…”

            “Just a few more steps, Sherlock…” John basically lifted the younger man over the threshold of the bathroom, conscious that Sherlock’s body was shuddering in a uniform manner. Sherlock collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, one hand holding tightly on to the edge of the bath to keep himself in a sitting position; his breathing sounded incredibly erratic, scared even. “It’s alright Sherlock, you’re alright.” John had to force his mind to the present, as flashbacks of him sitting with Harry after she had drunk too much presented themselves in his mind. Sherlock seemed to be fighting fiercely against how he was feeling; he retched loudly, then paused to draw in a deep breath. He looked up at John with a forlorn expression, his eyes were moist and he genuinely looked terrified – it was a look that John had never seen on Sherlock’s face.

            “John!” He whined in a high pitch tone. “I don’t want to be sick… please help me!” He gagged again, and the tears that had been forming in Sherlock’s eyes split over onto his pale face. John crouched down beside Sherlock, trying to portray calmness, even though he had never felt more unnerved at this behaviour.

            “Take a few deep breaths.” John told him, “It’s not nice, or pleasant Sherlock… but by the way you look, and I guess feel, at this moment – it will make you feel better.” Sherlock whimpered at this reply, his body still making frequent shuddering movements. “Trust me.” John said quietly; Sherlock held gaze with John for a few seconds, before deciding that it was easier to succumb.

            He turned his head away from John and, with a violent jerk, vomited profusely. John rubbed Sherlock’s bare back, painfully aware of the rib cage he could feel, and the acute convulsions which were wracking through his body. After two bouts of sickness Sherlock let out a strangled noise which sounded somewhat like a sob, drawing great gasps of air into his lungs over and over. Very cautiously Sherlock drew back from his position of hugging the toilet and rested his back against the edge of the bath, he looked decidedly worse than he had done before – his skin was now a grey colour, tinged with a certain amount of green just to highlight exactly how he was feeling. John dived back into Sherlock’s bedroom and returned a moment later carrying a glass of water; crouching down before Sherlock and pushing the glass into Sherlock’s quivering hand.

            “Drink this.” He said, Sherlock raised the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip. For a few long moments there was complete silence apart from the sound of Sherlock’s breathing. “Are you feeling any better now?” Sherlock shook his head, placing the glass onto the floor and resuming his placed in front of the toilet. The sound of retching filled the room as Sherlock’s body was rejecting everything that he had consumed in the past day in a desperate attempt to blackmail him into supplying it with the drug that it was missing. After a few more minutes Sherlock rest back and brought his hands up to wipe his mouth and rub his face; from behind Sherlock’s long thin digits John definitely heard a sob. John was generally well adapted to looking after patients, his bedside manner was normally impeccable, but he felt decidedly awkward – he didn’t know how to react in the best way. He was kneeling down beside his friend and finally stretched out his hand and placed it on Sherlock’s shoulder, he was still shivering and his arms were covered in goose bumps as he uncovered his face. “Do you want to go back to bed?” Sherlock gave a tiny jerk of the head as a reply; John weaved his arm around the back of Sherlock and hoisted him upright onto his feet. Sherlock wobbled dangerously; his feet never left the floor, they dragged along the floorboards until they got to the edge of the bed. John helped Sherlock onto the bed, and he promptly rolled over onto his back with his eyes closed, trembling. “No Sherlock – turn onto your side.” John put his hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him over so he was lying on his left side, he made a soft noise of protest but didn’t roll back. “I’m going to stay here Sherlock. I’m just going to be in that chair, if you need anything or feel that something’s wrong, tell me Sherlock.”

            “Mmm…” Sherlock hummed in a semi responsive way, his breathing becoming slower and more steady as he lay. “John…?” Sherlock’s voice was muffled as his face was pressed against the sheet of his bed.

            “Yes?” John responded, sitting down into his chair and sighing quietly.

            “Thank you…”

            “You’re welcome Sherlock, it’s no trouble.” John replied, “Try and sleep.”

            The daylight was beginning to come through the window as the sun rose and the city began to wake up, it was nearly 5 am in the morning now – John had been awake nearly all night. Awake purely to look after his friend, and he was glad he had been, he had been worried for a time… but it was clear in his mind that at this time, in his pain and suffering, Sherlock was the most human he ever could be. 


	11. Delirious Revelations

            It had calmed John’s nerves considerably when Sherlock had settled underneath the light blanket and gone to sleep; it was the best indication that Sherlock’s body was doing its best to heal itself – even though it was also the fury of Sherlock’s body about being denied the drug it so dearly craved that was causing him to be in such a state. Once he was sure that Sherlock had settled off to sleep he found his thermometer, carefully pressing it into Sherlock’s ear as to take his temperature again: 37.9 still, it hadn’t changed from the last time he had checked. As he settled back into his chair he made the conscious decision now that he was going to try and get some sleep while Sherlock was also asleep – Sherlock would wake him up if there was anything urgent happening, and it probably would be the wise thing to do, to try and snatch a few hours’ sleep if he could. John leant back in his chair, eyes still fixed on Sherlock, and in the silence of the room he could hear him inhaling and exhaling as he slept. Gradually John’s eyelids became heavier and he slipped into sleep, his head lolling onto his chest.

            _Vvvzz, vvvzz._ John’s phone vibrated in his pocket, creating a much louder noise from where it was situated sandwiched between his leg and the arm of the chair. He shoved his hand down, plucking his phone out in a rather disconsolate manner, his nap had been so good and he was loathe to open his eyes, especially as Sherlock hadn’t made a sound.

_‘Long night? –MH.’_

John growled and had an impending compulsion to volley his handset to the other side of the room, but no doubt that would wake up his sleeping companion. He checked the clock – 08:47am – it was nearly 9 so he must have been asleep for nearly three hours. Sherlock was still sleeping soundly – his mouth slightly open and the side of his face pressed into the mattress so that his left eyebrow and part of his nose squashed up. He was still a pale grey colour and had retained the look of someone much younger that had presented itself last night. John got up, it was time for breakfast and some tea for himself, maybe some water for when Sherlock woke up. And the idea of water sparked in his memory and he picked up his thermometer again to check on Sherlock; being as gentle as he could he pressed it into the ear that he could gain access to: 38.2. Sherlock’s temperature was increasing again, John dithered for a moment as to whether he should wake Sherlock up before he went to make tea, but then he considered the pain that Sherlock had been in and decided to let him continue sleeping at least until he got back with his breakfast.

            As he waited on the kettle to boil and the toaster to push up the bread that he inserted he could feel himself frowning, he had thought that Sherlock’s fever had maybe spiked after he had been sick, his fever had certainly come down at that point and had remained stable for a couple of hours, but now it was rising again. Mycroft’s text message had also unnerved him; how could Mycroft have possibly known that John had been up most of the night with Sherlock?

            Sherlock had moved when John returned to the bedroom; he had curled up into the foetal position, his knees pulled up towards his chest; one arm under the crook of his waist and the other hand rested under his left cheek. He was snuffling slightly as his hand obstructed his breathing partially. John sat down in his chair and took a grateful bite of his toast and staring absent mindedly at Sherlock.

            “Why do you look so innocent when you’re asleep?” John muttered aloud at the sleeping man, his heart did a somersault as Sherlock seemed to respond to his words by humming slightly, but he settled a second later and John gave a sigh of relief.

            Sherlock didn’t stay settled for long though, within a minute he had ruffled once more, a soft humming noise coming from his lips. John saw Sherlock’s mouth move, forming words with no vocal power behind them; then again, his mouth moved and this time there was a little bit more sound behind them:

            “I’ve explained to you Mycroft,” The words were whispered but clear, “How many more times will I need to repeat myself?” John shifted in his chair, instantly feeling like he was listening in on some kind of private conversation that was going on inside Sherlock’s head; should he leave the room? There was silence again as Sherlock stretched out his legs on the bed, rolling onto his back. “No… no… go away, I _don’t_ want to talk about this!” Sherlock had writhed slightly, as though Mycroft’s hands had been holding him and he was trying to get loose, his brows had knitted together over his closed eyes. “Fuck _off_ Mycroft!” John was a little shocked at the malice and intensity of Sherlock’s words while he was asleep – he had always known that the brothers didn’t quite get along with one another, but Sherlock had never publicly spoken to Mycroft in such a vulgar manner. Sherlock’s movement had begun to die down; John had approached the side of the bed with some caution, just in case he needed to restrain Sherlock from hurting himself. “Irene?” John’s heart plummeted even at the sound of the name; he stood transfixed by the edge of the bed but convinced that his limbs had just filled with liquid lead. He wondered what Sherlock was dreaming… How Irene Adler had come to be in his dream so vividly that he spoke her name. Sherlock sighed heavily in his sleep; “No… not Irene. Why must you always assume that it is her?” John felt a little spark of light inside him again, and placed his hand out onto Sherlock’s forehead, he was even more clammy than he had been last night. “No Mycroft, get off! I don’t need you! I’ll never need you again – why don’t you understand that?!” Sherlock spat the words out, “Caring? Huh! You wouldn’t care if your life depended on it! It’s your task to keep me alive so that Mummy doesn’t disinherit you – that’s not caring, that’s _servitude_!” Sherlock had thrashed around once more, trying to pull away from John’s hand. “I don’t need you to fulfil your duty; I’ve got someone who cares!” Sherlock was delirious, his fevered temperature was causing his brain to relive a conversation that he had either had or thought about having with his brother, but now it was replaying as a one sided memory that John was also experiencing. “I’ve got John! Who needs some domineering bitch like Adler when I’ve found someone ten times better who seems able to live with me? He _cares_ Mycroft – he doesn’t just act out of duty! And I care too! I love him!”

            John’s heart had definitely stopped, frozen, come to a complete standstill in a quantum sealed lock, as he stared down at the flushed face of Sherlock, and tried to take in the words which had just spouted forth from the young man’s lips. He mustn’t have been listening properly, or perhaps he had just picked up the words wrong? Or maybe Sherlock’s fever was causing his brain to go into some kind of temporary meltdown; maybe he should call an ambulance right at this second! But he didn’t, he paused – holding off and off and off, and eventually, as his lead filled limbs seemed to come back to life, tingling fiercely, he backed away from the side of the bed. He closed the bathroom door and locked it with a click, his heart pounding somewhere around the region of his temples; he grasped the sides of the sink with each hand and looked at himself in the mirror above the basin. He looked tired, he had bags under his eyes and his hair stood on end; probably from the countless times that he had run his fingers through his hair in the course of the night. He could not _possibly_ have heard correctly! Sherlock Holmes couldn’t possibly have just declared his love for him!

            But he had! John could hardly kid himself that he hadn’t heard what he had – but maybe it was the fever addling his brain and causing him to say things that weren’t truly what he felt. That was something, maybe that was the case – John would have to ask him when he was in his right mind… No, god! How could he possibly broach the subject with Sherlock?! Sherlock was undeniably emotionless when it came to these matters – or maybe that was the way he wished to present himself?

            _‘Why am I hiding in his bathroom?!’_ John thought to himself sternly, _‘It’s not like he spoke it with a clear mind to my face, he is a delirious ill man! I should not be hiding in this manner!’_ John scolded himself; he turned on the tap and splashed his face with water. As he dried his hands upon a towel he noticed a flannel hanging upon the towel rack, he held it under the cold tap for a few seconds and rung it out. Taking the flannel out of the bathroom, his heart still pounding rather hard inside him, he sat cautiously on the edge of the bed. Sherlock was still muttering to himself, some words were audible, but the majority were indistinct. He gently laid the cool flannel upon Sherlock’s forehead, who hissed upon the cool material touching his skin, and wriggled in some discomfort. Once the first perturbment had passed Sherlock settled down, still muttering indistinguishably from time to time, but seemingly slipping back into a deep sleep. John ran his fingers through the top layer of Sherlock’s hair, it was slightly damp from sweat, but John didn’t care. He was staring down at Sherlock, seriously pondering the words which he had born witness to… and mulling over how his feelings were so closely attuned to that of which his fevered friend had also discoursed. 


	12. A Soldier's Bond

John was attentive to Sherlock, despite his heart doing repeated flips inside him, throughout the course of the morning. He checked Sherlock’s temperature every fifteen minutes as to keep a close monitoring of how his fever was proceeding – at 11:25am John had decided that he couldn’t put it off any longer, that he would have to phone an ambulance… Sherlock’s fever had remained constant for forty-five minutes, at the worryingly high temperature of 38.7. John had told himself last night that if Sherlock’s temperature went any higher than 38.3 that he would call an ambulance – but here he was, Sherlock’s temperature was 0.4 degrees higher than he had decided that he would call for medical help… And he was still on his own; he hadn’t even moved to get his phone to call for help. Sherlock had mainly been still throughout that time, remaining asleep as the fever raged throughout his body, occasionally stirring as he dreamt, but never regained consciousness.

            The sound of the front door of the flat opening and closing barely registered in John’s head as he dampened the flannel with cold water once more and mopped Sherlock’s brow with it.

            “Very attentive, Doctor Watson.” John jumped as Mycroft’s voice broke in on what he was doing, he had his back to the door and whipped round to see Mycroft leaning against the door frame, there was the merest trace of a sneer upon his face. “I see you’ve put in quite the effort to look after my little brother, you must make sure that he thanks you when he comes back to himself…” Mycroft trailed off as John stared at him, “What?” His tone had changed slightly as he observed the look on John’s face.

            “I think I need to call an ambulance.” John stated, his voice wavering slightly, Mycroft took a few steps into the room while John continued to wipe Sherlock’s head.    “Why?” Mycroft questioned, staring from John to Sherlock and back again.

            “Because he’s got a fever of 38.7 degrees!” John exclaimed, “I thought his temperature was going down early this morning, but since he went back to sleep it’s just continued to climb!” Mycroft was still standing in the same place, an unreadable expression on his face.

            “Don’t call an ambulance.” He spoke calmly and John stared at Mycroft in astonished confusion. “If you call an ambulance and he’s taken to hospital, it will get noted on his files why he is there – Lestrade will never allow him to work on cases with him again. If anything would drive him back to drugs in the first place, it would be that…” John understood that and sighed; now it made sense why Mycroft had assigned this to him – because he thought him capable.

            “But what do I do?!” John was speaking more to himself than to Mycroft, then it hit him: “Mycroft! You’ve done this before! Did this happen the last time? How can I get his temperature down to something normal if I can’t take him to hospital?” John beseeched him.

            “You’re the doctor… think of a way to cool him down externally. Have you given him any medication?” Mycroft responded.

            “I gave him some paracetamol last night, that brought his fever down a bit, but then it went up again after he vomited. He went back to sleep after that and hasn’t really woken up since…” John answered slowly.

            “Hasn’t _really_ woken up?” Mycroft’s voice was inflected with amusement; John steeled himself as best as he could.

            “He’s been talking in his sleep…quite a lot.” John admitted. “Having conversations with other people, or repeating conversations that he’s already had.” John could feel his cheeks turning slightly red.

            “Ah, he used to do that when he was little. Did he say anything interesting?” Mycroft asked, flicking his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through it as though he wasn’t concerned about the situation about him.

            “Well… hmmm…” John cleared his throat. “He kind of, well… I think it must have been a conversation with you, because he, well – he told you to leave him alone in a slightly less polite manner.” John stammered, “And he mentioned…. Irene Adler, and… and me.” Mycroft’s head jerked up from being focused upon the small screen, he seemed to be struggling to compose his face into the attitude he wished to display.

            “Oh… oh!” Mycroft’s eyes widened momentarily and he gazed down at his unconscious brother with a look of horror upon his face, he had either remembered the conversation that John was referring to, or twigged what it must have been about through some other means. “Well, yes. Sherlock and I had a small altercation recently about the nature of his relationships with people. It ended by him speaking rather violently to me, and then leaving.” Mycroft paused, then his left eyebrow rose high up on his forehead. “How far did he get into the convers-”

            “Far enough.” John cut him off roughly, “To the end.” John turned away from Mycroft back to Sherlock, who had begun to shiver once more under the blanket.

            “Right, well I’m afraid that that conversation you will need to speak to Sherlock about when he is in his right mind again.” Mycroft told him.

            “Not bloody likely!” John asserted fiercely.

            “I thought you were soldier John? Not like a soldier to run away from confrontation, especially if it is a confrontation about something they have felt for a long time.” Mycroft percolated as though in disappointment of John, the anger which suddenly lit itself in John’s chest was unbelievable – now he could understand why Sherlock had so delicately told him to fuck off. But he pursed his lips, biting his tongue as to not say anything; Sherlock interrupted John and Mycroft by breaking into a coughing fit, each cough so violent and rattling that they struck into John.

            “I don’t have time for this now Mycroft…” John cursed quietly, “Right now your brothers health is the top priority, not anything he said while delirious, whether it be true or not.” John’s heart rate was speeding along so fast that John felt that his heart might break free of his chest cavity. “I need to think of something to do to stop him having a neural meltdown as a result of this fever!”

            “Wake him up, force feed him some paracetamol – that should bring his temperature down a bit, and stick him in a cold shower or something. I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something John.” Mycroft tutted lazily, waving one hand towards the bed and heading to the door. John rolled his eyes, just like Mycroft – appear for seconds and leave when John actually needed his help.

            “Well thanks for that Mycroft!” John called out sarcastically, hearing Mycroft’s footsteps retreating away from his room.

            “Message me if you’re in dire need of something!” His voice wavered non-chalantly back up the stairs and into Sherlock’s bedroom through the open door. John swore back just as he heard the front door of the flat slam shut. John retook up his thermometer once more – one last check before he did anything, but Sherlock’s temperature had not changed.

            “Sherlock.” John said quietly, placing his hands upon Sherlock’s shoulders – he didn’t want to shake him but he was decided that he did need to wake him. “Sherlock, wake up.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, but they were glazed over. “Can you sit up?” John asked him, but Sherlock made no movement, so John had to help him up. Leaning Sherlock’s back against the headboard, John fumbled with the packet of painkillers, until he held two tablets between his fingers; Sherlock didn’t protest, or make any movement of resistance as John administered the medication and lifted the glass of water to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock gulped greedily until the glass was empty, John refilled it and brought it back to Sherlock – the height of his fever and the amount of fluid that Sherlock was losing had clearly left him dehydrated. “Stay still, stay here a moment, I’m going to run a bath for you.” John rushed into the bathroom and turned on the taps in the bath until it was half full of tepid – but not freezing – water. Now came the challenge, first to get Sherlock into the bath, then to make sure he didn’t drown while he was in it, then to get him out again. But he would have to attend the latter when he got to that… getting him into the bath was much easier than John had anticipated – Sherlock was so unresponsive and unobjecting that John hardly had to make any effort in lifting Sherlock and settling him into the bath in the way John wanted him to. The most difficult thing about getting Sherlock into the bath was making sure that his head remained above the water, John was worried – Sherlock’s eyes were open, but he was completely non responsive, he seemed to be slipping back into unconsciousness once more. Sherlock was almost fully immersed in the water of the bath, John was kneeling by the edge of the bath with one hand supporting Sherlock’s head, watching closely for any sign of trouble, but none seemed to come. Sherlock closed his eyes, but his breathing remained steady and even. John’s eyes travelled the length of Sherlock’s body and fixed upon the inside of his left arm, which was slightly blurred through the water, but John was still able to see the mosaic of purple and yellow bruises patterning along his arm, and counted thirty-five separate needle marks where he had been injecting. Recreational – recreational, what a load of bullshit! That looked like the arm of some of the people that John sometimes saw in A&E, the hardened drug users, the ones shooting up more than twice a day.

            “Oh Sherlock…” John breathed quietly, “Why must you get yourself into these situations…? I can’t imagine how you’d do this on your own.” Well, that was wrong for a start – John knew exactly how Sherlock would do this on his own: he wouldn’t. Not until Mycroft appeared and picked him up by the scruff of the neck and refused to let him go until he was clean. So he wouldn’t have done it by himself. “It is so like you Sherlock. You do whatever you want to do when you want to do it, then you let everyone else deal with the fall out when it goes wrong.” John pushed the hair out of Sherlock’s eyes carefully, his stomach clenching tight inside him. How long would he keep kidding himself that those feelings weren’t real… What would it take for him to admit that this friendship with Sherlock, was more than just a friendship – on his part anyway… But even having heard Sherlock say what he did didn’t change how he wanted to respond – which would be to stay silent. If he said nothing then there was no chance that this friendship would be altered, either by reciprocation, or by the awkwardness that would become present between the two of them. John knew he already acted in a way that was different than just a friend, even a close friend, when anything happened – John went running, regardless of prior obligations, he would run to find Sherlock. How much further would he be able to go on if he didn’t speak to Sherlock about it? Would he come to a point where he would find it physically impossible to even look at Sherlock without his heart ripping in two because of his love and longing; and Sherlock would be oblivious of both.

            John was a soldier! Soldiers didn’t run away, they weren’t trained to hide or cover up; they were trained to stand tall and proud no matter what obstacles they were facing. _But_ the bonds of companionship that a soldier formed with his friends were stronger than of civilians. When John had first met Sherlock, he hadn’t fully integrated back into civilian life yet, and the friendship that he had embraced with Sherlock had filled the vacuum that John had experienced at the loss of his army comrades. The bonds of a soldier and his friends were practically unbreakable – a soldier would be a loyal and trustworthy companion at all times. Especially when they fell in love. John had thought about that in the past, whether he had chased after Sherlock because he wanted to protect him – even though Sherlock was more than capable of looking after himself, most of the time anyway. The way that Sherlock had helped him to lessen the empty space which John had fallen prey to, that was too great to risk losing. For the time being John would continue to love Sherlock from afar, until it became too much.

            “Why are you looking at me like that?” Sherlock’s voice, much weaker than usual but distinct nonetheless, broke John from his daydreaming. He realized that he had been staring down at Sherlock and felt his cheeks redden, but this was no time to act silly now that Sherlock had regained consciousness.

            “Sherlock!” John exclaimed, but it left his mouth as a weak croak. “How are you feeling?” John withdrew his hand as Sherlock was now capable of making sure he didn’t drown. Sherlock had pushed himself up, so that his chest and torso were out of the cool water, but the effort he had displaced made him descend into a coughing fit. John watched rather helplessly as Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand, and his ribcage expanded almost obscenely, as the air rattled around his lungs. Once he had stopped himself choking, he looked at John with a somewhat quizzical look.

            “Why am I in the bath?” He asked.

            “Well, your temperature was worrying me so I had to do something to try and bring it down.” John exclaimed sheepishly, “You couldn’t stand so it seemed like a cold bath was the best alternative.”

            “You put me in a cold bath, with my boxers on?” John frowned, for someone who had been very ill less than half an hour ago, Sherlock seemed to have recaptured some of his normal essence when he regained consciousness.

            “Well, I-” John stuttered.

            “You’re a doctor John, haven’t you seen worse?” He said, in a slightly mocking way. “It’s very gentlemanly that you took consideration of my dignity.”

            “Shut up.” John snapped, standing up and drawing back from his friend.

            “John-”

            “You really worried Mycroft and me.” John spoke sharply, folding his arms across his chest.

            “I’m sorry.” John blinked as he definitely saw Sherlock speak. “I… I…” He stuttered, clambering unsteadily to his feet and stepping out of the bath. John repressed the urge to remonstrate Sherlock for doing so. “You’ve been looking after me better than anyone else would. Thank you.” Sherlock was certainly was not back in his right mind, but as John watched him he saw the little colour that was in Sherlock’s face drain out of it.

            “Sherlock?” John stretched out his arm in a precautionary, and was less than surprised when Sherlock grabbed onto his wrist with the tightness of a closing vice. He had raised his other hand up to his face and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Sit down if you’re feeling faint.”

            “No, I’m fine.” Sherlock stated, opening his eyes again, he pulled the closest towel off of the rack and wrapped it around himself as he began to shiver again.

            “Give me a second and I’ll get you some dry underwear.” John told him, “Hold onto something if you’re dizzy.” Sherlock let go of John’s wrist, which he still had a grasp of, and John checked the first few drawers until he found what he was looking for. “Here you are, do you need any help, or…”

            “No, I’ll be fine to charge myself thank you.” He answered, taking a hold of the dry boxers. John felt slightly embarrassed as he left the room and perched himself upon the edge of the bed. When he next looked up, Sherlock was changed and holding onto the edge of the bathroom door frame, his face was very white indeed. John sprang to his feet and crossed the room to help his friend back to bed; Sherlock took hold of John’s arm without argument. Two steps in, Sherlock pitched forwards violently and threw up on the floor, unfortunately not missing his own feet.

            “Shit… oh Christ.” Sherlock coughed. “Christ I’m sorry.”

            “It’s alright Sherlock.” John said soothingly, trying to negotiate Sherlock round the puddle of sick and sitting him on the edge of the bed. “Sit there for a moment, don’t lie down.” He commanded, Sherlock perched on the edge of his bed and placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. John cast his eyes around the room and they fell on the waste paper bucket, which was mercifully empty, and placed it in between Sherlock’s feet.

            “John… I’m sorry.” Sherlock apologized, his voice was hoarse and he didn’t seem to be able to raise his head off his hands.

            “Stop it Sherlock.” John told him firmly, “It’s not anything that can be helped.” Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock could see John with a cloth in his hand, cleaning up the pool of sick that Sherlock had just put there. “Just sit there until you’re feeling a bit better.” Sherlock obliged, not moving until John had finished cleaning up and tidied away the cloth he had been using. “Would you like some water?” It was a question but John didn’t wait for an answer, he held the half empty glass right in front of Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock accepted it and took a few slow sips, but the water didn’t seem to help any as it was hardly a minute in time before he brought the water back up. Sherlock let out an uncharacteristic whimper and rubbed the palms of his hands on his bare kneecaps.

            “Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.” Sherlcokw as muttering under his breath, so quietly that John barely heard him, he took several deep quivering breaths like he was resisting the urge to gag again. “I don’t know how much more of this…” He paused abruptly as his body started to convulse and he retched again. “Hoe much more of this I can take…” His voice was so shaky that it was almost unrecognizable, John sat down next to Sherlock on the bed.

            “I know you’re feeling awful Sherlock…” John started uncertainly, “And I get that I have no idea how you feel… but it can’t last for much longer. I could take you to hospital right now and get them to give you an injection of anti-emetics; but they would do a tox screen so they’d know exactly why you needed it… it would go on your file and, and Lestrade wouldn’t let you work on police cases anymore.” Sherlock groaned aloud, he probably knew that information, but right now it wasn’t really what he wanted to hear. “I’m sorry Sherlock, but you just have to bear it out a little longer.”

            “Yeah…” Sherlock sighed heavily, “Can I lie down for a bit? Ten minutes or so?”

            “Yes, of course.” John stood up off the bed and Sherlock flopped backwards onto his mattress, “But please, can you lie on your side?” Sherlock rolled on his side in acknowledgement.

            “You, you don’t have to stay in here.” Sherlock said, “I’ll be fine now, you can go and get a cup of tea or whatever… I’d shout if anything was wrong.” John looked down at Sherlock, the idea of a cup of tea and a little bit of time to sit down and not do anything at all sounded nice, but alarm bells rung in the back of his head as he knew he should probably stay in the room just in case. “Oh stop doing your doctor thing, just leave me alone for ten minutes, alright?” Sherlock mumbled.

            “Okay, okay, alright… I’ll leave the bucket by the side of your bed, just in case, alright?” John replied.

            “Mmmm, yeah.” Sherlock hummed, “Just ten minutes, ten minutes, yeah?”

            “Yeah, just ten minutes.” John said, backing away slowly to the door of Sherlock’s bedroom.

            “Thanks.” He heard the quiet mumble.

 


	13. Best Left Unanswered

            John woke when a hand clasped upon his knee; he had evidently fallen asleep in his armchair with the tv on. He was rather surprised when he realised that the hand was that of Sherlock’s, and that he was bearing a cup of tea in his other hand.

            “Here.” He said rather gruffly, holding out the cup for John to take. John accepted it without a word and watched as his friend moved back and sat down in his own armchair. He was clothed in a loose pair of trousers and a t-shirt that looked rather out of place upon him as he normally only wore shirts. He was still looking pale and wan, but definitely better than he had been earlier in the day. John flicked his eyes towards the tv and noted that the program was different from the one he had been watching, clearly he had fallen asleep before the end of it and the next one had started. “You’ve been sleeping for three hours.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. “So have I, I must say. Well nearly… I wasn’t sure whether to wake you up when I came down, but I thought you might appreciate a cup of tea.”

            “Thanks,” John mumbled, looking down at the mug he was still holding. There was a rather long silence, filled only by the quiet conversation of a talk show host on the tv screen. John saw that when Sherlock lifted his cup to his lips his hands were trembling slightly, finally John broke the silence; “How are you feeling?” He felt it was a rather stupid question, but it was the easiest way of putting it to his friend.

            “A lot better.” Sherlock replied eventually, John felt slightly uncomfortable as he could feel Sherlock’s eyes fixed upon him – boring into him as though trying to read his mind. “Not quite 100 percent, but getting there rapidly.” John tried to avert his eyes from the detective as best as he could by staring at the floor, but just for a second he caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s expression; Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but wasn’t really sure how to say it  - his eyebrows were hunched down and his eyes leaked confusion. “I… I know that merely saying thank you isn’t nearly enough…” So that was the cause of the confusion, an uncertainty of how to proceed; John shook his head.

            “Sherlock, I’ll say it once more because I’m not sure your brain was conscious enough to comprehend it when I said it last time. I’m a doctor; I look after people for my profession, if you think I wouldn’t do that for a friend then what kind of doctor would that make me?” John replied calmly, Sherlock was biting his lip and the look of confusion hadn’t passed away yet.

            “So… we still are?” He asked cryptically.

            “Still are what?”

            “M-Mates?” The word came out rather quickly and Sherlock looked sheepish.

            “Why wouldn’t we be?” John inquired, his heart tightening inside his chest as he thought of the conversation he had heard while Sherlock was asleep, and the subsequent interaction with Mycroft. Thinking about it, Mycroft had looked distinctly uncomfortable about the whole situation also, and he had brushed it off by telling John to speak to Sherlock about it when he was conscious. But no – no way, he wasn’t going to bring that subject up in a million years, but that wouldn’t stop his heart pounding in his chest so hard it created a fluttering sensation.

            “It didn’t seem like you wanted to be a few days ago.” Sherlock muttered rather quietly into his cup of tea.

            “A few days ago?” John inquired, trying to cast his mind back into the past few days, but he could hardly remember anything prior than the episodes of withdrawal.

            “When you yelled and – and called me,” Sherlock stopped, he was pouting slightly, “You called me a child.”

            “Oh,” John breathed, realization blazing into his head like a wildfire. “That doesn’t mean I’m not your mate anymore… I was frustrated with you, and with what you were doing. You can’t just expect me to sit back and watch a friend die – no, I’ve had that too many times in my life before, and I wasn’t willing to let it happen again. I got annoyed with you, I called you a child, I was being honest about how you were acting, but it produced the right effect…? It made you think about what you were doing, so I don’t regret telling you that; _but_ that doesn’t mean I’m not your mate.”

            “Okay, good.” Sherlock muttered under his breath, drawing his chin down onto his chest as though he was trying to appear diminished for some reason. “I, well, I, uh…” Sherlock stumbled over his words in a way that made John almost want to laugh, but he restrained himself. “Thank you.” Sherlock made a coughing noise as he uttered the last two words, then suddenly he shifted in his chair. “The mother did it.” He nodded towards the television very quickly, wishing to change the subject and get it away from where he was uncomfortable. John looked at the tv, they were about five minutes into a murder mystery show, but somehow Sherlock knew the answer without even having been watching it; John made a humming noise as he wasn’t really bothered.

            John felt a question burgeoning inside of him, one that he wanted to ask – not about what he had heard Sherlock say – but about the initial reasons and “experiments” that he had led to him being so entranced by the cocaine, Sherlock would never admit to it being an addiction. John hadn’t been entirely sure whether to believe Mycroft when he had said that he didn’t know the reason for the drugs.

            “Seeing as we are mates, I’ve got a question for you…” John started, still aware that Sherlock was gazing vaguely in the direction of the tv; Sherlock moved his attention to John, lifting his cup to his mouth again and John got another flash of the inner side of Sherlock’s left arm, marred with bruises and track marks.

            “Alright?” Sherlock’s face clearly indicated that he would be under no obligation to answer whatever question John was going to put forwards, John paused again even more unsure about embarking down this route of conversation. “If you’re about to ask me why I got into taking cocaine in the first place then it’s a question best left unanswered…”

            “Right…” John cleared his throat as Sherlock’s ability to deduce what John was going to ask had left him in a rather odd position, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. “Why?” Sherlock stared blankly at John. “Why is it a question better left unanswered?” Sherlock seemed slightly taken aback by John’s continued questioning of the subject, Sherlock was piercing John with a cold stare, and John thought he better make a clean breast of himself. “I asked Mycroft…” He confessed, “And he told me he had no idea, that you wouldn’t say and that he didn’t know of anything that would lead to this.”

            “At least he was honest!” Sherlock spat contemptuously, “Mycroft knows nothing, even though he has tried to press the issue with me on several occasions over the years. I am not telling a lie when I say that intellectual stimulation was a major factor in enticing me towards cocaine in my relapses – but it was not the initial reason.” John realised that his mouth was slightly open and closed it very quickly; Sherlock had been staring at a point above John’s head while he spoke – his eyes unfocused and rather blurred in appearance. His face had assumed an expression in a rather strange manner, John struggled to read exactly what it was – regret, reminiscence or soul-wrenching sadness? John swallowed with some difficulty as a lump had formed at the base of his throat; Sherlock kept his personal past private, he did not disclose anything, not even to John – Mycroft didn’t even know! But here he was telling John, maybe not in the most explicit way, about his life before he had formed himself into a respected – by most people – consulting detective.

            “Did…” John began the question but it died in his throat, everything telling him that this was a bad idea to go on further, but he forced the words out. “Did… something… happen to you when you were young?” Sherlock was still staring far away, as though lost in a galaxy of his own.

            “Sort of…” It seemed to take him an immense effort for the words to come out of Sherlock, “Yes.” His admission was forced, almost snatched and rasping, and John’s heart arrested at the words. “It depends what ‘something’ is.” Sherlock quickly snapped out of the state he was in, “But that is something that _will not_ be spoken of.” John nodded in agreement with Sherlock, seeing the determined and slightly angry colour that had washed itself over his face now. Sherlock’s external demeanour had instantly hardened, his eyes cementing a glazed defence which was certain to stop any further questioning.

            “Okay.” John replied huskily, feeling as though a cataclysmic event had just occurred when Sherlock had shared a piece of personal information about himself, especially one with such a weighted connection behind it. If John had encountered a patient in the hospital like Sherlock, and gotten the same reply to that question then he would have instructed them to speak to someone, a counsellor or therapist… but Sherlock would just be insulted at the mention of it. Whatever had happened Sherlock had managed to cope with it up until now – well, thinking about it, no he hadn’t been… He had turned to drugs when things became slow – when memories and the past had its opportunity to creep in. A desire to question Sherlock, to force him to speak about what had happened, to somehow cathartically purge him of the reason for the drugs, rushed through John as he observed the younger man. If Sherlock spoke to him about it then perhaps the burden of being the only person to know what had happened would be lifted from his shoulders, but that wasn’t his decision to make, that was all down to Sherlock. “Okay.” He repeated again, nodding slightly; Sherlock’s head had cocked to one side as he stared at John.

            “You’re the first person to not really hound me about wanting a reason.” Sherlock admitted, “I thought Mycroft might never let me go when I was twenty-three unless I told him, he kept me in the same room for over a week.” John was finding it difficult to remain in the category of not hounding him, but felt that Sherlock was picking up on his curiosity.

            “I’m not going to hound you about something that you’ve said you don’t want to talk about – it’s your choice as to whether you talk about your past, just as it’s my choice whether I supply people with information about mine.” John said with considerable thought; Sherlock pulled his hands up and placed his fingers together, his thumbs pressing up into his chin and his index fingers touching the tips of his nose. He seemed to be really ruminating what John had just said to him and he nodded slightly; John felt it would be impolite to interrupt whatever his friend was going over in his mind, so he allowed a comfortable silence to fill the space between them. John was convinced that Sherlock actually did want to talk to someone about what he had admitted, but maybe that would take time… and John was willing to wait and be there when the time did come… 


	14. Boxes and Elephants in the Room

John was more than a little relieved that Sherlock returned to bed after only having been awake for an hour and a half. John agreed with him that rest was the best way for his body to recuperate now, and it seemed that the peak period of withdrawal was now, mercifully, over. John let Sherlock retire before he did, turning off the tv and listening for Sherlock's footsteps upon the stairs and the closing of his bedroom door. Once he was certain that Sherlock was in his bed, he checked the electrical appliances and climbed the stairs himself, yawning all the way. He was _exhausted;_ he was more than a little thankful that Sherlock was feeling better, because he had been beginning to bend under fatigue... It reminded him very plainly, that since he had come out of the army, his body and mind had changed hugely – while he was in the army he would have thought nothing of staying awake for two or three days if his services as a doctor were needed... now he became tired much quicker, maybe he was just getting old. He certainly _felt_ old as he climbed into bed; and for a few seconds his mind flicked back to Sherlock and the memory or event that Sherlock was hiding from the rest of the world... But he didn't have long to mull it over – almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, John fell into an instant, dark sleep.

            Sherlock lay on top of his bed for a while just staring up at the ceiling. The conglomeration of the past day and a bit had been condensed into painful flashes, the majority of which he couldn't translate into any coherent time line. He remembered pain, crushing and overwhelming; he remembered feeling so hot and cold both at the same time; he remembered throwing up and being so miserable that he would have rather died than had to continue the way he was feeling; and then the next thing he remembered was waking up in the bath... and John had been there the entire time making sure that he was alright. He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily, it wasn't often that he wanted sleep, but at this moment he _needed_ sleep as he felt so weak.

            His sleep was not entirely as restful as he would wish... He tossed and turned as he kept getting flashes of withdrawal. At around quarter past six he woke with a start and found himself with one arm and leg dangling off the side of his bed; he hauled himself upright and lay for a moment, feeling his muscles twitching with a renewal of energy. After lying for a few minutes moving restless position to position, he decided to get up – he had been in this room for far too long in the past couple of days. Situating himself along the sofa in the middle of the living room he tried to focus his mind on a problem that would distract his mind sufficiently enough from boredom but still allow his body to relax. He ended up thinking about how carefully John had looked after him while he had been unable to even say his own name; why had John felt the need to sit beside his bedside? Watching and checking to see if he was breathing or not. Why on earth would anyone voluntarily keep themselves awake to do that? Sherlock couldn't comprehend how that would be productive for anyone to do – and what John would have gained from doing so... Logically he wouldn't have gained anything at all, apart from the knowledge that Sherlock was safe.

            Sherlock sat bolt upright on the sofa, his eyes wide open , staring straight out of the window directly in front of him with a view of early London as the city just began to wake up, but he felt like a hand had just turned on a switch inside his brain. John had sat up all night watching Sherlock _just_ to know that Sherlock was safe... Sherlock gave his head a slight shake, could that possibly be why – well John had said he was Sherlock's friend, even after having yelled at him about the drugs. Sherlock lay back down, his mind still fixedly focussed on John.

            John: who hadn't pressed him for details about why he had started drugs. John: who had looked after him better than Mycroft had ever done. John: who still cared after Sherlock had treated him abysmally, after Sherlock had never given him a moments thought while he was shooting up to please himself.

            As Sherlock closed his eyes again he was instantly transported back to when he was sixteen years old, curled up in a heap on the floor of Mycroft's bedroom in his halls of residence; skeletally thin and shivering as the absence of the substance he had grown so accustomed to depending on. Mycroft had refused to give him any help until Sherlock explained his reasons for taking cocaine; but Sherlock's stubborn nature had clashed with that of Mycroft's. The thought of telling Mycroft the reason made his skin crawl, he had always tried to repress those feelings, those memories, everything... he wasn't keen on re-opening those gates to that time, not when he was convinced that he had boxed it away in a compartment of his brain that he would avoid at all costs. That was how it had started, when he was nine years old, that was when he had discovered the ability to entrap feelings, memories, emotions; secure them as easily as he could padlock a box and storing it in the dustiest, most decrepit part of his brain so as to never ever go near them again. However lying on the sofa as a twenty-eight year old, he couldn't even close his eyes without having flashbacks to being younger. His mind writhed in protest at those old boxes rattling by themselves and making so much noise that they could not be ignored anymore... Sherlock pressed the heel of his hands into the grooves of his eye sockets, feeling himself frowning at the same time; block it out, block it out, lock it all up again. John had asked about it; John had wanted to know the reason why he had started the cocaine, and he had told him that he couldn't tell him... It wasn't that he couldn't tell him, it was that he didn't _want_ to uncover and unlock those boxes. He didn't want to bring those memories back to life, didn't want to give them the potential to alter the way he lived his life in a manner beyond his control. John had _asked,_ John had been the catalyst for those boxes inside his mind beginning to react.

            Why was that? Was his well trained mind finally beginning to rebel against him? Was his secret so _desperate_ to be shared with someone else that it would bring about the ruin of his intellect – through whatever way it could – the end of cases; the failure of experiments; the rush of the drugs?

            _'That is weakness affecting you.'_ Sherlock scolded himself mentally, _'You must not let the facts be marred by unwanted variables, that would produce a less than desirable outcome... I **must** **not** let sentiment take over me.' _ He could hear his own breathing, heavy, through his inner voice shouting inside his head. Then he realised that he was breathing loudly and mentally shouting at himself because he was trying to drown out the little voice in the back of his head, which was saying: _'Telling John wouldn't be giving in to sentiment, it wouldn't be marring the facts either... It would be divulging the reason, therefore diminishing its power and grip over you alone...'_

            He always liked for his mind to be active, to be mulling over some problem, deciphering out some tiny detail; but it being in turmoil over his own life was not something that he found particularly pleasant.

            “Are you hungry?” John placed his hand upon Sherlock’s wrist, it had been stretched across his face the inside pointing to the ceiling, blocking out any light from reaching his eyes. Sherlock came to with a start, he had been semi dozing until he felt the warm touch of John's fingers grasping his wrist for a second. He moved his arm from his face, eyes screwed up because of the influx of new light pouring in through his pupils. John was fully dressed and already moving back to the kitchen as Sherlock sat up. “Sorry, I don't know if you were sleeping... I'm making toast.” Sherlock swung his feet round so he was in a sitting position, his feet equally spaced on the floor. He could see John bustling about in the kitchen and hear the kettle beginning to boil, and a moment later John emerged into the room with a slice of toast on a sheet of kitchen roll. “Here you go.” John handed him the toast and returned to fill up two teacups and bring them through; he sat down with a heavy sigh and took a bite of the toast and jam that he had for himself. Sherlock looked down at the slice of toast he was holding in his hand and for some reason felt immensely overwhelmed by everything around him... By the daylight streaming through the window, by John sat in his armchair, by the slice of toast and cup of tea that had been made for him... “Are you alright Sherlock?” John asked through a mouthful of toast, Sherlock looked up at him and their eyes locked for a second – they held each other's gaze for the briefest of moments until John broke it and looked away uncomfortably.

            “Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine.” He replied, once his brain had registered John's question. “Just, still waking up, you know?”

            “Yeah – well, eat your toast and that might stop your hands from shaking so much.” John told him; so Sherlock obliged, he was certainly not in the mood to argue. John seemed to be pointedly _not_ looking at Sherlock while he finished the rest of his toast. Sherlock got the distinct impression that John was _embarrassed_ for some unclear reason. Maybe it was something he had said, or something he had done unwittingly? Or maybe it was just John feeling overly conscious about the way he had looked after Sherlock during withdrawal... he did seem to get slightly bashful about things like that – it was nice! That was one of the things that Sherlock liked about John, he _really_ liked. Despite Sherlock's antithesis being sentimental emotion, he had never – not even for a second – doubted that John's heart was his greatest asset. He hadn't specifically _told_ John that, more just hoped that the fact would bleed through his very being and be absorbed and acknowledged by his friend. “So you're feeling better now?” John asked, once he had finished his piece of toast and was crumpling up the sheet of kitchen roll in one hand.

            “Yeah, a lot better, thanks.” Sherlock took a bite of the toast he had been given, and felt even more uneasy when John still didn't seem to be able to look at him.

            “Good.” John said, nodding and standing up from his armchair. “I'm going to do some shopping, is there anything you want?” Sherlock shook his head, attempting to catch John's eyes as he headed towards the door, but it was in vain. “Okay, I'll be back in a little while.”

            Sherlock leant back into the sofa as he listened to John descending down the stairs and leaving the flat. Something was definitely out of place; normally Sherlock's brain was so well attuned and perceptive that he was able to pick up and identify why a person was acting in a peculiar way. However his mind had been dulled through withdrawal, it hadn't yet recovered it's sharpness, and John had always given Sherlock problems in his ability to completely read a person. He was never inept, he had observed and deduced an awful lot about John in the time that they had been living together... but John was complex, much more complex than the ordinary person. Sherlock did not doubt that his time in the army had left John with bountiful layers of personality that he had wrapped around himself, one after the other. His centre, his core was right in the middle, but like a soft sweet he had become encased in too many films of cellophane. Each layer had to be peeled off with tender care to get anywhere near the innermost soft centre, but Sherlock had never been able to penetrate that deep – he doubted that anyone ever had been since John had returned from Afghanistan. In a way he doubted whether anyone would ever be able to get the doctor to reveal himself completely; the final layers of protection would be too sticky, too tightly held that it would take a very important person to strip them away. But that layering and encasing posed a challenge to Sherlock, but also stood as a reminder to him. Sherlock had piled layer upon layer over himself, perfecting the procedure until no one could get through the top layers... Sherlock thought of John as a sweet with too many wrappers, but that wasn't himself. He was like a prisoner in a cage of cast iron bars, with layers of brick and steel and titanium confining him within. No amount of heat, or water, or anything would be able to get through to the prisoner inside.

            So maybe he was reading John's actions wrong, maybe he was completely incorrect. Perhaps it was _him_ that was acting oddly – not John. He couldn't figure that out. He sat in the complete silence of the flat, staring at the space right in front of himself and feeling painfully aware that the gears inside his head were turning very slowly and meticulously.

            When had John spoken to Mycroft? He had mentioned that last night when he had asked about the reasons... but Sherlock couldn't remember having seen Mycroft since that day that he had hallucinated about Moriarty and the Magpies. If Mycroft came to visit while he had been unconscious, then there might just be a chance that Mycroft would know the reason for John's odd behaviour...

_'You visited John at some point recently, what did he say to you? -SH.'_

            Sherlock disliked messaging his brother about this, it would only make his brother more smug and pompous that he was having to ask him for advice.

            _'He said a great deal, mainly about wanting to call an ambulance for you. Why? I take it that you are over your withdrawal now? - MH.'_

            No help at all, and there it was – the self righteous checking up of his elder brother.

_'Yes, perfectly back to my usual self. John has been acting rather peculiarly since I regained consciousness, I've been trying to figure out what the reason for it might be. - SH.'_

            Sherlock wondered whether Mycroft had told Mummy about his latest relapse: good god he hoped not... The wrath of his mother would be terrifying to face if Mycroft had told her.

_'Acting oddly? Well – you did talk in your sleep quite a bit, he told me so. -MH.'_

            Sherlock frowned at the message; John had mentioned the day before the peak of withdrawal that he had been talking in his sleep, but how could that be the cause for John's odd behaviour since?

            _'Talking in my sleep? What did I say? Did he tell you? -SH..'_

            Sherlock's heart rate had increased inside his chest, he slightly dreaded the answer that was going to come from Mycroft as he suddenly had a vague idea about _what_ and _whom_ he might have been speaking about.

            _'Yes. I believe you were re-enacting our altercation about your relationship with Irene Adler, and other people. - MH.'_

            It was just as Sherlock had feared, that conversation between himself and Mycroft had become a heated one. He had divulged more than he had wished while he was attempting to get Mycroft to leave him alone; he had revealed his true feelings. He placed his phone down on the sofa beside him and ran his fingers over his face and through his hair, exhaling heavily. He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, then picked up his phone once more.

_'How much of that conversation? -SH.'_

            There was hardly the space of an intake of breath until Mycroft's response:

_'All of it. -MH.'_


	15. The Realms of the Heart

Sherlock had recovered with great speed, almost alarming rapidity, considering how ill he had been less than thirty-six hours ago. He was almost back to full health, and nearly full strength; no doubt he would be trying to get out and solve cases before the week was out. John's heart was heavy at the thought that very soon Sherlock would            stop displaying any of the human tendencies and go back to being the machine that he had been before. But no matter how hard he tried John _couldn't_ get Sherlock's delirious proclamation out of his mind... Speaking to Mycroft about it had only made it worse – because Mycroft had confirmed that there was _some_ kind of feelings there, however buried they were. What was John to do?! Should he confront Sherlock about what he had heard – and risk the swift termination of this friendship?

            John didn't really need to get anything at the supermarket – he wandered rather aimlessly around. He walked up and down each aisle, occasionally stopping to look at something, or to pick up an item and read a label. In truth he was just stalling time because he wasn't sure about what to say, or how to act – as he was still considering the situation around Sherlock. How long could he logically spend in Tesco? Well – he had been there for almost an hour already and the basket slung over his arm was still completely empty. Maybe if he ignored the situation, if he let it slip away from his mind then everything would all go back to normal. Because Sherlock wasn't stupid... sooner or later he was bound to notice something, or pick up on a vibe that something wasn't quite right – and then he would stop at nothing to find out what it was. That wasn't the way John wanted Sherlock to find out – fuck no, he didn't want Sherlock to find out at all!

            It transpired that John could really stretch out a trip to Tesco so it became a morning long activity. Three hours after he had entered the supermarket he left with only one plastic bag containing milk and a few other essentials.

            From halfway along the street on the other side from 221B John could see the tall thin figure of Sherlock standing in the window, the light from inside the room illuminating his silhouette. Sherlock could see John on the opposite side of the street, carrying one shopping bag back – how could one bag of shopping have taken all morning? Unless he had gone somewhere else – like to visit a friend or... who would he visit? Standing watching John trying to cross the street through the sheer mass of lunchtime cars Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest, sending refracting pulses through his entire body. He wasn't experienced in how he was feeling in himself; his muscles were contracting and relaxing as he stood, and he felt nervous... or did he? Was this what being _nervous_ felt like? If that was the case then he wanted that feeling gone, in the fastest and most painless way possible. If he squared his shoulders, grit his teeth and just spoke to John then maybe that would be the end. It was worth a try – and it was destined that it had to happen now because he had worked himself up, wound himself so tightly that he thought he might explode with the tension as he heard John's keys click into the lock and his feet on the lower stairs.

            “I'm back Sherlock,” Sherlock heard John's voice calling as he ascended the flight of stairs. Sherlock was standing in the groove of the bay window, his arms folded across his chest and his face turned away as to look at the street outside; as John reached the top of the stairs he turned ever so slightly. His eyebrows were hunched down into a frown, the line that appeared in his nasion even more pronounced than it usually was, and his jaw was firmly set. He looked deep in concentrative thought, John wondered if Lestrade had maybe sent him a message asking him to look over something which would explain the expression he was wearing. John placed his shopping bag on top of the kitchen table and began to unpack it when Sherlock's voice interrupted him:

            “Why didn't you say anything?” John paused in unpacking the few items from his shopping bag and moved to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position at the window and he had turned so he was looking out into the street again.

            “Say anything about what?” John asked, slightly bemused by Sherlock's behaviour.

            “That I talked in my sleep.” Sherlock responded, John stared at him; Sherlock seemed to square himself up, like he was forcing himself to do something that he wasn't keen on doing in the first place. “Specifically that I recounted _that_ particular conversation.”

            “I... Well, I – I... You... I...” John stammered, flustered by Sherlock's announcement. He was struggling to process the words that he had just heard coming out of Sherlock's mouth, and his heart seemed to be incapable of deciding whether it should cease beating completely, or to continue palpitations with increasing speed. “You were delirious!” John finally burst out with some difficulty; the tips of his fingers were tingling and sending cold waves up through his arms up to his chest and head. “I had no right to hear that conversation! I was trying to look after you. I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do when you started speaking... I'm sorry.”

            “No, you didn't have a right to hear it.” Sherlock said calmly, unfastening his arms from their tight position across his chest.

            “I – I – I'm sorry.” John muttered, Sherlock had made as to move forwards into the room, but at the same time John had turned and retreated a few shuffling paces into the kitchen. “I'm sorry, I'll – I'll just leave...” John felt rather numb, his stomach had filled full of what felt like ice inside of him, and he was taken aback by what had just happened.

            “No, John – stay!” Sherlock commanded. It took a few seconds for Sherlock's command to sink into John, he had still been edging away in such tiny steps that he almost didn't notice that he was moving at all. “John, please... Come and talk to me.”

            Sherlock was pleading slightly and he had leant forwards so just above his knees was rested against the arm of the sofa. John hadn't moved, he was in a semi twisted position staring at the plastic bag on the kitchen, still waiting to be unpacked. This was where he _hadn't_ wanted to go – this subject, he had wanted to give it as wide as berth as was possible – or to ignore and avoid it altogether. But he couldn't stick his fingers in his ears and drown out the outside world, and this situation – not now that Sherlock wanted to directly talk about it.

            “John...” John felt sick as he turned back to the living room. A few strained moments passed where Sherlock stared at John, and John stared resolutely at the floor in front of his feet. Sherlock was rocking back and forth slightly on his feet, every time he went forwards his knees made contact with the arm of the sofa. He looked immensely uncomfortable, his arms were strapped tightly to his side, he swallowed rather visibly as he steeled himself. “I hadn't ever expected you to hear that conversation.” Sherlock started, stopping himself from rocking and forcing his eyes to look at John, but John was still looking at the floor. “Mycroft has always tried to pry into my relationships,  ever since we were little kids! It's like he doesn't think I'm capable of choosing friends...” Sherlock paused, he was frowning in the direction of the cushions on the sofa. As a child he had been close to Mycroft, until he had started at school and didn't want the association of being “Mycroft's younger brother”. That was his childhood, and this was now – maybe when he was a really little kid then Mycroft did have some justification in making sure that Sherlock wasn't picking friends with the wrong people – or just to make sure that Sherlock was making _any_ friends at all. Isolation while at home, with only Mycroft to talk to, had made it a challenge for Sherlock to connect with other kids his own age. Being in the company of Mycroft had led to Sherlock's mental development being vastly advanced, but his ability to mingle and talk to other kids was depleted.

            But no! He was an adult now and he had been right to tell Mycroft to fuck off! His days of being checked up on and dictated to about who his friends could be had created and sustained hostility between the two brothers. He had stopped needing Mycroft's help in choosing friends when he had started secondary school, or rather – he had stopped needing Mycroft altogether, especially as he didn't particularly _want_ to make friends... Mycroft, however, disagreed. He felt that it was still within his right to tell Sherlock whether a person was good for him or not. So it had been when he had appeared at the flat, seemingly determined to have a conversation about his brother's relationships with people – and there was one person in particular that Mycroft wanted to talk about: Irene Adler. But that ws someone that Sherlock could no longer stand to think about! Contrary to everyone's beliefs, Sherlock had never fallen prey to her seductive charms as so many other men had done; his interest had never been anything other than intellectual. She was clever, there was absolutely no doubting that, and the way she had positioned herself – in an ultimate powerplay – which eventually backfired upon herself, that was daring, it was risky... It showed intellectual prowess hidden behind the fancy clothes, or no clothes, and _that_ had interested Sherlock. His mind always required some kind of stimulation; Adler had provided that very simply, but nothing more than brain work. For someone with a vast intelligence like Mycroft, he had sure picked up the signals wrong about Sherlock and Adler – there was nothing romantic about their relationship and there never, ever would be.

            The realm of the heart, the realm of emotion, had remained a very strange and rather forbidding concept to Sherlock; the feelings and desire to understand them had been locked up in those boxes with those memories, unable to be unlocked by himself. He couldn't open them, he couldn't get into them... but that wasn't to say that no one else couldn't. He had always thought that the ability to change and be influenced by another person was a sign of weakness (that was certainly what his father had taught him); but his father wasn't at the point of his life that Sherlcok was now... More importantly, his father had never met John... John was changing Sherlock, without even trying to, without probably meaning to – just everything that he did, the way he lived, rubbed off on Sherlock and made him different; made him _better!_ And Mycroft had never objected to John; sure he had warned him off right at the very beginning, but once John had refused he made no further pressing attempts to sever the friendship between John and Sherlock... he had never questioned Sherlock's relationship with John...

            Sherlock suddenly came to the realization that he had been standing silently just staring in front of him, and now John was actually looking at him like he might run from the room at any second. He needed to do or say something to break the awkward tension building in between them.

            “I... uh... I had never thought you would hear that conversation,” Sherlock repeated, taking in a sharp breath as he knew what the next words were going to be and what kind of effect they could possibly have on his friendship with John. “But I'm not sorry that you did hear it – and I won't apologize for what I said because I meant it.” John's heart, which had been speeding at a rate of naughts, came to it's decision and came to a complete standstill. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, the pain that shot through them proved that he wasn't dreaming or hallucinating; this was real.

            “Uh...” John struggled to make his brain form thoughts, words or sentences. “I – sorry..?” He finally spluttered, it seemed like all logic and order in the world had been turned upside down and then dissolved.

            “I won't apologize, I – I just hope that I won't marr our friendship. Although I completely understand if you want to look for somewhere else to live, I get that this situation may not be desirable – I did not intend for that to happen.” Sherlock seemed to be speaking with calculation and thought, but his closed body language was easy for John to read: his arms drawn tightly in towards him, his eyes averted and his left knee twitching through the nervous energy being expended by him. Sherlock had admitted something close to him, and he was prepared for the retaliation – he had closed himself off for protection.

            “I... I don't want to leave.” John spoke through numb lips, Sherlock looked up at him and John made a conscious effort to look directly into Sherlock's eyes. John took a breath, trying to think of the best way to formulate how he was feeling into the simplest way of telling Sherlock. “For someone so clever, sometimes you can be so blind to the people closest to you.” He swallowed, maintaining his eye contact with Sherlock as he knew it was the best way to show Sherlock that he was being truthful. “Your brother... Mycroft – when you had that, that conversation... How did he respond to you when you said what you did to him?”

            “He didn't.” Sherlock looked puzzled at John's question. “I left before he could say another word. I didn't want – he's always been too nosy for his own good.”

            “If you had waited, if you'd let Mycroft speak to you about it, then you might have found out that I, um, feel the same way.” The words had tumbled out from John's mouth so quickly that he feared he may have to repeat himself, but as he continued to look at Sherlock he saw the detective's eyes widen in a moment of shocked processing.

            “You what?” Sherlock blurted without thought, then he physically shook himself as though testing whether this was real. John clearly saw the flicker of a spark in Sherlock's eyes, but it very quickly died away like a candle being smothered with carbon dioxide. Sherlock seemed to resume his usual disposition and looked like he hadn't believed a word of what had just gone on.

            “When you solved the case with Irene Adler, the moment that you figured out the code for her phone – how did you do that?” John asked.

            “Well she, I realised that she was in love...” Sherlock answered, looking rather confused at the twist the conversation had just taken. “I took her pulse, I checked the dilation of her pupils; it was rather obvious when you know the signs.”

            “So you know the signs?” John interjected abruptly.

            “Yeah, yes. I do.” Sherlock replied.

            “Okay, you know the signs... well, well,” John's brain was racing far ahead of him and his mouth was struggling to keep up. “Well apply your knowledge of the signs to me, right now.” Sherlock stared at him in a rather dumbfounded manner – the expression did  not suit him well – as he surveyed John, probably thinking that this whole thing was one big joke. “Come on!” John encouraged, sticking out his arm as a method for Sherlock to take his pulse; attempting to refrain from trembling massively. Sherlock moved slowly, picking his paces across the room until he was stood a foot from where John was. Very slowly and cautiously Sherlock encompassed John's wrist with his hand, pressing two cold fingers into the inside of his wrist; at the same time he looked into John's eyes. John could see Sherlock's gaze focusing from one eye to the other, as though checking that they were both doing the same thing at the same time; John had to resist greatly from looking away. It must be clear to Sherlock through the taking of John's pulse that there was some physical attraction or limerance from John... John's skin was tingling from Sherlock's touch and his heart was beating with such force that he was pretty sure it was about to burst out from his chest, like that thing had done from John Hurt's chest in that _'Alien_ ' film. John wasn't sure how long he stood there, but he was aware that the pressure on his wrist was there for longer than he would have expected it to be if Sherlock was merely measuring his pulse. Very suddenly Sherlock relinquished his grip on John's arm, letting it drop and swing like a pendulum at John's side.

            “Well... I, um... Well, well that...” Sherlock stumbled over his words, he was seemingly gripped in a paroxysm of uncertainty. “I don't know if it's good or... it's certainly, um well, unexpected!” A tiny tinge of colour was permeating Sherlock’s pale face as he shifted around. “Are you – um, I – uh...” Sherlock ran one of his hands through his unkempt hair, he seemed to be at a complete loss as to what to say or do. “Are – are you sure?” He managed to get the sentence out and John looked up at the younger, but taller man; he had an overwhelming desire fluttering inside of him. He let the silence in between them gather and settle for a moment.

            Then, giving in to the urge that was screaming inside of him, he stretched out his right hand and fastened it around the collar of Sherlock's silk dressing gown; once his grip was secure he pulled Sherlock towards him and their lips met. 


	16. Perturbed, Dumbfounded Confusion

For a few blinding moments neither Sherlock or John realised that they were kissing. John could hear a rushing noise as all the blood in his body projected up towards his head, making his knees feel as though they could give way underneath him. He let his hand drop as he relinquished his grip from the front of Sherlock's dressing gown and pulled away from Sherlock. For the longest of minutes there was utter silence as they reeled from what had just happened.

            “Uuuh, uuh, uum...” Sherlock scrambled in an unusual second of dumbfounded shock; he seemed unable to make his brain process the situation and his mouth opened and closed rather forlornly.

            “I'm – I'm sorry.” John managed to make his brain work before Sherlock had come back to coherency. He had taken a step back from Sherlock in nervous apprehension and was now resisting the urge to run from the flat and keep running until he couldn't get any further away. “I didn't – I- I don't want to make you uncomfortable.” John dropped his gaze to the floor as his insides had begun to writhe as though they were rats in a cage.

            _'Oh god, Christ – why?! What the hell did I have to do that for?'_ John cursed himself, wishing that he could dissolve into the floor – the heat of his face alone would probably be enough to deliquesce the membranes of his cells and reduce him to a puddle of liquid on the floor. The proceeding few moments were the longest that Sherlock and John had ever experienced all through their lives... John was sure that the heightened sense of tension had not been this drawn out when he had been shot! The effort that John was having to displace on keeping his breathing steady and not descending into hyperventilation was all he could endure under the pressure. Sherlock, on the other hand, was frantically trying to reign in his neural impulses – which seemed to be misfiring in all different directions, making him unable to gather in all of his scrambled thoughts.

            “No, no – you didn't.” Sherlock finally managed to pull his thoughts into comprehensible English but his voice was weak and high as he drew in a breath. “Are – are you sure?” He repeated, he had drawn up to his full height but also seemed to be receding into himself. John swallowed:

            “I'm sure if you are...” He mumbled, steeling himself and raising his gaze from the floor up to look at Sherlock – his heart did a triple spin as he got as high as Sherlock's chin, so he settled his eyes on a point over Sherlock's left shoulder. Sherlock seemed flummoxed by this reply also. John could see out of the corner of his eye Sherlock was staring down at him very intently, with his eyebrows knit together, almost disbelievingly. He seemed to be drawing on all of his powers of observation and deduction to try and establish whether John was telling the truth or not, but the countenance of his face made it clear that his face had resumed the appearance of his younger self. John let his eyes flash quickly across to Sherlock's face and felt a thrill of fear chase through him. John wasn't sure whether it was the close proximity, or because of the confused contortion across Sherlock's face, or because he was seeing Sherlock in a completely new light, but Sherlock looked _different_... It was almost indefinable – just a new glow that his aura was giving off, or the bright spark which had been ignited in his clear eyes. John felt another rush of heat travel through his veins, he could hear his pulse thundering in his ears and was sure that his face had flushed as red as it was possible for the pigmentation of his skin to go. Concentrating his eyes on the floor once more and trying very hard to unstick his feet, as they seemed to have become rooted to the spot, John was trying to make some kind of movement to end the awkwardness.

            “You've – you've gone bright red.” Sherlock stated rather obviously, tripping over his words.

            “Well, yeah.” John answered,his left eyebrow cocking high up on his forehead and staring at Sherlock who appeared to be floundering out of his depth.

            “I'm a little lost as to what to say next...” Sherlock admitted after a while, sounding outwardly composed, but his eyes were portraying a different story.;

            “Yeah... I, um, I'm not quite sure what to say either.” John mumbled. He was paying very close detail to every one of Sherlock's movements as his demeanour had taken a drastic leap once again; when Sherlock repeated his uncertainty to John he had appeared to be drawing in on himself but now there seemed to be a massive internal conflict raging through Sherlock's mind. At first it had been visibly obvious to see that he was writhing in inner turmoil, his face had transfigured between dumbfounded confusion and utter disbelief; his eyes flashing between a deep vulnerability and a perturbed state – the rest of his body expanding and contracting with the fierce battle going on within him. John took a tiny step backwards, not giving in to the compelling urge to leave Sherlock to his rumination about what had just occurred, but the external signs of the oppugn had faded away and the only trace that anything was still going on was in the iris of his eyes, which had a stormy depth ranging from dark over clouding to the light calm in amidst the dissipation of every single one of the thoughts.

            “At least – well,” Sherlock started, but then stopped very abruptly. “I was going to say, at least we both know where we stand, but I don't know anything of the sort...”

            “Neither do I really...” John answered in a rather sheepish manner,shuffling his feet around on the point he had been standing. Sherlock's arms were hanging loosely by his side as he stood transfixed less than a foot away for John, but the fingers of his left hand were twitching rather routinely as though his well trained fingers were arranging tunes out of thin air rather than on the neck of his violin. Sherlock looked completely overwhelmed by the events of the previous fifteen minutes, there was that look growing upon his face very similar to the one that proceeded his trips to his mind palace. “Do you... would you like me to go away for a little while?” John asked quietly,  “Let you play your violin, or go to your mind palace, or smoke as many cigarettes as you possibly can without getting nicotine poisoning...” Sherlock made no movement or response to John's proposition, but John wanted to get away just as much as he thought Sherlock needed to also; so he began to edge away towards the door.

            “No, stay...” Sherlock said abruptly, “I'll go.” John stopped in his tracks, Sherlock had reanimated and was suddenly heading towards the door of the living room. “I'll go out.” There was a determined tone in his voice that John didn't want to argue with; so he let Sherlock pass him, barely registering that the consulting detective didn't even glance at him as he brushed past and swept down the stairs. John could hear the swish of Sherlock's coat being pulled from the coat hook and then the door open and slam shut. John sat down heavily on the sofa and rested his head into his hand, running his fingers through his hair.

            It was entirely possible that he had just messed up his entire friendship with Sherlock – he had wanted to prove to him that he was completely serious about having had feelings for him, but maybe grabbing him and kissing him wasn't the best way to prove that to him... It would have made more sense for him to talk about it, properly, openly – authentically, and gotten everything out into the open and then taken things from there, one step at a time. John couldn't express, he could hardly process the emotions and feelings that were coursing through him, but there was absolutely nothing he could do until Sherlock returned – possibly in a more clear mind himself.

            Jesus Christ – an hour and a half ago he had been reminding himself that he never wanted Sherlock to find out about this; now he had admitted his feelings for Sherlock and shown them very candidly! The way his heart was pounding within him was finally beginning to slow down as he rested back on the sofa and sighed.

            _'No. Stop it – this is what you have dreamt about, what you have fantasized about: about Sherlock knowing that you like him, and him having similar feelings in return. Now you know both are true – you just have to wait until Sherlock comes back and talk to him about it. Don't hope, don't expect, and be prepared to move out if need be... don't be too pushy, or too demanding, or anything.'_ The little voice in the back of John's head was lecturing him on what was going to come next. _'Put your heart into what matters – into this friendship. And if that means sacrificing feelings to stick by a friend, then buck it up and shut up!'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading and, hopefully, enjoying this, I wouldn't be objected to a few comments letting me know what you think! Enjoy!


	17. Rain and Cigarettes

            The sky was overcast as Sherlock left the front door of the flat; great heavy lead grey rain clouds loomed on every point of the horizon which lead to no other consequence than impending rainfall. This potential change in the weather incurred no real disquiet upon Sherlock's mood, as he walked with a quick pace away from Baker Street. He had only made it the length of two streets away when his knees began to buckle and he stopped, leaning against the stone brick of the nearest building. His breathing was much faster and much more shallow than usual; his head was spinning and grey spots were appearing at the edge of his vision. Maybe it was the lack of food from the past few days, he hadn't been too concentrated on food during the peak of withdrawal; or maybe it was the shallow breathing which was causing a depleted amount of oxygen to make it into his bloodstream. Whatever the cause, now would not be a good time to faint... In the middle of a random street – all it would produce would be random strangers fussing over him, and he'd avoid that at any cost...

            Jesus Christ, he really needed a cigarette – or some nicotine patches, or just anything that would allow his brain to start working again. He dug his hands deep inside his jacket pockets, searching for remnants of anything that might be of use, but they were practically empty. A zippo lighter was stashed in the inside pocket of the left breast of his coat, but apart from that all of his pockets were empty. Or so he thought until he double checked the pocket with his lighter in it – curled up around the metal was a very worn, dog-eared five pound note... He stared down at it in some astonishment, coming to the realisation very quickly that John must have put it there. He rarely carried money around with him on his person, so it probably wouldn't have crossed his mind to have a little bit of cash in case of dire emergency. And dire emergency this was! Clasping the crumpled and slightly dirty note he moved away from the wall he had been leaning against in order to find the nearest newsagents which he could buy cigarettes in.

            Ripping the plastic seal off the cardboard packaging, Sherlock's fingers were fumbling impatiently with the foil wrapping which was causing him a major obstruction for some reason. As he placed the first cigarette in between his lips he could feel the welcoming anticipation that came before the nicotine rush and the relaxation that would hit him after his first few draws. He was walking purposelessly once more, his feet pounding down onto the pavement without any real conscious effort or drive; drawing in the deepest breath he could and exhaling a cloud of smoke in front of him.

            Sherlock had been walking for a while, he wasn't positive of the length of time, but he had smoked three consecutive cigarettes now – each one taking roughly seven minutes. He came to the edge of a park called Coram's Field, which was little more than a glorified patch of grass and clump of trees, and stopped walking. Marching about wasn't helping with the mass of confused feelings that had just hit him, it was just allowing him to ignore them for a little longer, but he would need to confront them within himself before he could turn around and go home. And the rain clouds were not altogether encouraging for people not under cover.

            He flicked out another cigarette of the nearly half empty pack and held it between his lips without effort. He could feel his face hunched down in concentration to his thoughts; he took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it between the thumb and first finger of his right hand, rubbing his left hand across his face.

            So John... Sherlock could hardly admit it to himself, but it had become clearly present: John loved him. His breath caught in his chest as he thought about it. That kiss; it could hardly prove anything otherwise... He hadn't been kissed like that for a long time. Not since...

            No. He had to concentrate on John, not anything or anyone else. John had been acting oddly since he had been witness to the conversation that Sherlock recounted – now the reasons for that behaviour was obvious. He had been trying to avoid the subject because he didn't want his own feelings to come out... How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so _blind?_ It all made perfect sense now; everything had slotted into place inside his brain. John had been so worried about Sherlock's drug habit because he was scared that he would end up dead, not just because of his loyalty and friendship with him, but because he had deeper feelings for him and didn't want to let him die. John had looked after him and tended to him while he was withdrawing because he didn't want to jeopardize something going wrong. John had _always_ looked after Sherlock, ever since he had moved in – he had made him food, allowed him to continue carrying out experiments within the flat, made exceptions for him when he was in foul moods, done everything not just out of a stubborn pride and loyalty that he had gained whilst in the army. But all out of _love_...

            So what did that mean? What did all of this _mean?_ Would everything change between himself and John? How – would it ever be possible to go back to the way it had been before? Was it – no, everything would be different now... He guessed it was hardly usual to profess love for a person and then carry on as though the world hadn't monumentally been altered. Sherlock rubbed his hand across his face once more – feeling the pressure of the palm of his  hand against his forehead, flattening his nose and catching slightly on his bottom lip – then letting go and exhaling heavily. His head was spinning and he felt sick, but he _needed_ to get this sorted out inside his head before he could go back to the flat. Even just inside his head felt like a topsy turvy mess, if only he could straighten it out. It wasn't like he had anywhere else he could go to do that... expect perhaps Mycroft, and he really couldn't face his brother at the moment, not without wanting to punch him in the mouth, as he knew there'd be a “knowing” look or a smart alec comment that would tip him over the edge. He was fairly sure that John would panic and freak out if he disappeared without any warning, so he would have to go back.

            Sherlock took another long deep drag on his cigarettes, relishing in all of the nicotine, tar and every other dreadful chemical that was present within it. He tried to go back to two hours ago, when he had been standing in the living room of his flat, despising the way his body was reacting, telling John that he would apologise because all he had done was tell the truth... However in casting his mind back the only point that he could anchor upon was the kiss.

            That kiss; John's lips connecting with his own. The warmth and softness of his skin had become imprinted upon Sherlock's memory. Just like _those_ lips had been so long ago... Sherlock shuddered violently. John, just John: John's lips upon his own.

            Finally managing to dispel any thoughts of the past, he tried to engage his analytical brain so as to look at all of the facts without personal reaction. With a touch of harsh ambivalence he recalled the conversation between Mycroft and himself, the one which John had then heard; he had been being honest when he said that. His love, could he call it love? He had never experienced this kind of attachment to another human being in years! But John had changed him for the better and he had not contested it, he had allowed himself to be influenced – he had allowed the bonds of friendship to blossom and flourish, he did not want to lose John. He felt comfortable, relaxed while he was in John's company – he never had to cover up who he really was or his private bad habits... and John put up with them, occasionally with a little grumbling, but there is only so much a normal person's patience can take; even though John was certainly not normal. Sherlock felt as though a hand was suddenly squeezing his heart, but not as though attempting to restrict it. He didn't want to lose John, he wanted him at his side for as long as was manifestly possible. Yes, he did love John.

            What was the ordinary procedure when one discovered that they were in love? Did one have to do anything special?Sherlock recalled when Mycroft was fifteen and sixteen, going on series of different dates with a stream of girls (mostly selected by his father), doing different things while in the courtship stage. Was that what he should suggest to John? A date? Or something else like that? Ah god! He had no idea! He could feel the muscles in his forearms tense, as though preparing to throw a punch at someone, through his pure frustration at the world around him. He knew that this kind of experience was normally one that people went through in their teenage years – he had convinced himself that he had managed to bypass all that kind of bullshit. He had put up with members of his extended family saying that he was just going through a phase, that he 'just hadn't met the right person yet'; God that comment used to infuriate him! But if he thought about it just now it seemed like those people maybe had been right, and he – Sherlock Holmes – might have been wrong... But he hadn't met John then, and John was the only person whom he had ever voluntarily formed an attachment to for any length of time. He had chosen to allow that; why? Because there was some kind of force around John, some kind of charismatic air which drew the two of them together. Of course their initial meeting had been set up by one of John's old friends, and lecturer at Bart's – Stamford, but Sherlock could have taken one look and decided that John wasn't the kind of person he had wanted anything to do with, but he hadn't. And since that time John had proved himself almost invaluable in many different respects. Shit, why was he even contesting this in his head? It was pretty obvious the way his body physically reacted when he was around John, he could pick out the hormones that were released into his bloodstream and their physical and mental impact when John was close... Of _course_ he was in love with John. And that was different from anything that had ever gone on in the past – love was a new thing. This kind of romantic love was definitely a new thing, but not an unwelcome one... He had always imagined that he would be repulsed, avoidant of everything to do with falling in love – but that wasn't the case when he thought of John. John was able to put up with all of his quirks, all of his bad habits; so when John closed his eyes and dared to cast his mind into the future  he saw John – and himself. Still living together in Baker street, still bouncing off one another, still solving crimes. He could practically hear John complaining about having fallen asleep during surgery hours because they had been chasing around London trying to catch a criminal. It almost made Sherlock laugh out loud! If he could already imagine that future then why should the idea of his relationship with John being deeper make that future any different? Theoretically it shouldn't. But there was always the potential that any feelings might fizzle out, and then that whole future would be drastically altered.

            So there was two options – go back, try to return to normal like neither him or John had said or done anything out of the ordinary, but then his friendship might suffer as a result; or go back and do something to initiate a further relationship and live in the knowledge that if something went wrong then their future relationship might be changed. That was just the risk he would have to accept, and put up with it  when he had made his choice.

            Sherlock had been too busy contemplating to realise that his cigarette had gone out, or that light spots of rain had begun to fleck down to his bare skin. He looked up at the sky, the rain clouds had become much more pronounced, it looked like the rain was about to start pouring down, but Sherlock wasn't bothered by the rain... Not everything was sorted in his mind. He would just have to put up with getting a little wet until he was prepared to go back... What else was there to go over? Sherlock knew – but he didn't want to acknowledge what it was, because that was what was in those boxes.

            As the rain began to turn into a proper deluge, Sherlock shaded himself under the canopy of the close planted trees and re-sparked what was left of his cigarette.

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've said before- I wouldn't mind knowing whether you think this is a good story, or whether I'm abysmal and should never pick up a pen again! :)


	18. Finally Asking

            John had never seen the rain batter down as hard as it was now against the windows of the Baker Street flat; even when he had been abroad with the army he hadn't experienced this kind of torrential downpour. It must be bitterly cold and wet, and somewhere out in that rain was Sherlock – probably drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone. He wouldn't have gone anywhere in particular – not if he was just wanting to think about something, in that case he would just beat the streets in a rather purposeless manner. He would never go to Mycroft's unless every street in the city of London was swarming with Moriarty's gang all attempting to hunt him down. Somewhere in the rain, Sherlock would be walking, or hiding – thinking, or not thinking. John had hardly moved since Sherlock had left, apart from sitting down on the soda he had stayed in the same position.

            Sherlock returned to Baker Street very slowly, but by the time he reached the outside step of his flat he was utterly soaked. His feet were so cold that they were painful to bear weight upon for any longer, and everything from his elbows down was numb, so much so that the unlocking of his own front door was such a challenge that it nearly seemed impossible.

            The front door closed, and John became aware that Sherlock must have returned to the flat, but there was a very long silence between the sound of the door closing and the sound of Sherlock's footsteps climbing the staircase. John's heart had resumed an increased tempo as Sherlock came into view at the top of the stairs, still clad in his long coat. His dark curls were sodden, and the water that had leached into them was dripping off and running down his face. His face was so pale and his lips were tinged with blue, and John could see he was clenching his jaw in an attempt to prevent his teeth from visibly chattering. But the physical evidence of the weather was nothing in comparison to the look upon his face: he looked defeated.

            John had jumped up from the sofa as though an electric current had shot through him, but Sherlock said nothing. He just stood in the doorway, silently staring down, with the water dripping from his coat and creating a visible puddle on the floor around his feet.

            “Sherlock!” John exclaimed in a shocked kind of outrage, why had Sherlock allowed himself to get into this state, especially as he was still recovering. Although he wasn't ill he was still weakened – and a barragement of rain was unlikely to help. Sherlock didn't respond to John, he continued to stand dripping water onto the floor; his eyes had none of their usual sparkle, they were dull, and his features were set in such a way that he gave off the indication that he was thoroughly miserable. For a second John did nothing, but his urge to make sure Sherlock was alright took over and he put aside his inhibitions and approached Sherlock. He allowed his medical impetus to take charge, moving to Sherlock's shoulder; the woollen fabric of his coat was completely sodden and had soaked up so much weight that it was bearing down on him. “You need to get this jacket off before you get hypothermia Sherlock.” John commanded, taking a hold of Sherlock's sleeve cuff and pulled hard so Sherlock's arm slipped out. Feeling the extra weight of the coat he shook his head in exasperation; “God Sherlock, why did you let yourself get soaked?” Sherlock said nothing; John was beginning to feel slightly worried, normally Sherlock had a response for absolutely everything. “Sit down, I'll get you dry clothes.” He ordered as he could see Sherlock was fighting against the cold setting in. John collected a towel from the small airing cupboard in the hallway and pulled down a pair of trousers, socks and a shirt from the pulley which hung in the kitchen. When he returned to the living room Sherlock had perched upon the edge of the sofa, John laid down the clothes next to Sherlcok and handed him the towel. He noticed that Sherlock's hands, which had been clasped together, were mottled purple and blue; as Sherlock accepted the towel out of John's grasp the tips of his fingers brushed the skin just above John's thumb. “Jesus Sherlock!” John flinched in connection as the blocks of ice which were Sherlock's fingers touched him; he crouched down very swiftly and placed both of his hands around the outside of Sherlock's. His hands weren't quite as large as his friends, but the heat that felt like was radiating out from him would go a long way in heating up the chilled phalanges. “You're like ice!” Sherlock had winced as the heat of John's hands encapsulated his own, the sudden warmth had caused his fingers to tingle painfully.

            “I'm sorry.” He mumbled through numb lips, the heat of the flat had stunned him – his cheeks felt like they were glowing red after having been blasted by the wind, and the rest of his being was inflicted with sharp pins and needles now that the warm blood in his veins was rushing back into his extremities.

            “You need to get out of those wet clothes and into those dry ones before the chill sets in. I'll make you a cup of tea while you do that.” The words seemed kind of fuzzy in entering Sherlock's ears, but his brain had finally come into focus while he had been walking in the rain. John had let go of the outside of Sherlock's hand so he could move to make the tea – and the absence of John's hands was startingly cold.

            Sherlock's fingers were stiff as they pulled at the buttons on his shirt, trying to unhook them one at a time. He could hear John clattering about in the kitchen, audibly trying to give him enough time to get changed. Generally the cold and the rain didn't bother him – especially so when he was out on cases – but he hadn't been trying to avoid the rain while he was out there and it had drenched him, soaking him right to the bone. With a bit more ease, now the feeling in his fingers was returning, he stripped off his socks and changed his trousers in two very swift movements. He was just finishing buttoning up his shirt when John re-entered with cups of tea. John didn't speak, simply laid down the mug of steaming liquid in front of Sherlock. Meanwhile, Sherlock had reached for the towel that John had materialized and was attempting to wring out some of the moisture from his hair. John had sat down in his armchair and was looking over at Sherlock; Sherlock had made the decision that he wasn't going to allow any awkward silence to come in between them until this was sorted out properly.

            “I'm sorry for staying out for so long.” Sherlock stared with an apology, thinking that that was the best way of getting through to John straight away. “I needed to get things sorted in my head before I talked to you about it.” Sherlock took a sip of his tea and saw John nod in an understanding kind of way. “I – you – I...” Sherlock tried to continue, but the words were jumbling up over one another inside his head, he took a breath while looking at John. “This is completely foreign to me – this whole thing; the entire concept of a relationship is something that has never really interested me, or intrigued me at all... which is why I've been having problems coming to grips with _us._ ” Sherlock placed a delicate stress upon the word 'us', and for the first time John and Sherlock's eyes locked gaze.

            “What do you mean _'us'_?” John questioned, his voice did not indicate vested interest of the answer and, for the smallest moment, Sherlock hesitated in uncertainty.

            “That's what we need to talk about.” Sherlock answered firmly, “I need to know what you think, how you _feel_ ; and you need to know about me, before we can make a resolve to follow any particular path.”

            “Right...” John suddenly appeared extremely uncomfortable.

            “But -” Sherlock interjected, hoping to put some of John's unease to rest. “We both need to be candid – otherwise nothing we do from now on will be positive for either of us.” John's lips pursed as he seemed to be physically chewing over this. “I have a few questions for you... ones that I need you to answer honestly for me.”

            “Okay.” John said quietly, placing down his cup of tea and angling himself towards Sherlock in his chair, but his gaze was not directly at Sherlock.

            “You... you kissed me,” Sherlock swallowed, “Did you really mean to?”

            “Yes.” John croaked.

            “Did you intend to prove the way you felt through your actions?”

            “Yeah.” John repeated.

            “So you do have feelings that are more than just friendship for me?” Sherlock probed further, then noticed how red John's face had flushed. “Like romantic feelings?” John made the tiniest of snorting noises, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him as John appeared to be suppressing a kind of sheepish grin.

            “If you like...” Was his response.

            “If I like...?” Sherlock echoed back as John's response hadn't entirely provided confidence to Sherlock.

            “Yes.” John confirmed more finitely, there was a small pause as Sherlock gathered the next row of thoughts into a relevant question.

            “When you think of the future... what do you see?” He asked, feeling as though he was moments away from clinching the object of this conversation.

            “That's... that's a rather vague question Sherlock.” John said. “I try not to think of the future, it's ahead and I just intend to let it come, not dwell upon it and not make the most of what is going on currently. I spent ages dwelling upon the past and missed out on the chance to experience and value what was going on around me – I'm not keen to do that in reverse.” This answer came as a bit of a surprise to Sherlock, he had always thought that John would be a bit of an obsessive planner, maybe he had been – whilst he was in the army – but since he left then there was no need for him to plan or evaluate about the future... Because in John's mind he didn't _have_ a future. His post traumatic stress disorder had still been incredibly prevalent when he had met Sherlock. John had continued on with his everyday life, adding colour and excitement by working alongside Sherlock in his cases, and he hadn't really had extended periods in which to fall back and think about the future.

            For Sherlock, introspection had always used up a sizeable chunk of the time that other people would have spent sleeping – he thought, analysed, scrutinized over absolutely everything; the smallest details were a means of allowing him to sharpen his own intellectual perception. When really faced with it, hen often spent time on the very little things, the almost insignificant things, but disregarded the overall picture until the time that he saw fit. Teachers had always written that in his report cards while he was in primary school: _“Concentrates too deeply on the small irrelevant matters and avoids the big picture.”_ That had been the epitome of Sherlock, until he started high school and realised that if he took all of the tiny, nugatory facts and slotted them together inside his head, then he often produced a much more accurate overview than everyone else. It was then that the birth of a superior analytical genius had occurred. And now, Sherlock was _still_ focusing too much upon the little details – who cared if Sherlock had thought about the future and John hadn't? That didn't _really_ have any consequence on right now – not if they felt the same way about everything else.

            “Do you want to know what I see when I think about the future?” Sherlock propositioned.

            “Alright.” John agreed.

            Sherlock drew himself up so his back was straight and clasped his hands together. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he spoke: “Us.”

            “Us?” Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John's surprised face. Silence; and Sherlock's stomach turned over inside him. “Are you suggesting that _'we'_ should be in a relationship?” So the slight hint that Sherlock had been trying to emphasize had worked.

            “In a roundabout way... I suppose I am.” Sherlock nodded.

            “You supposed?” John solicited, his features had set in a hard expression, one that he used to inform a relative that something had gone wrong during an operation.

            “I _definitely_ am.” Sherlock ratified. John just stared at Sherlock in an agog manner, he blinked rather rapidly as though trying to wake himself up from some kind of dream or hallucination. “Is that something _you'd_ want?”

            John couldn't help but stare in utter amazement over at his friend, who was sitting very upright, but also maintaining the refined, relaxed air that he somehow managed to exude; the towel that John had given him to dry off with draped around his shoulders. Sherlock was pale, but there was almost the faint trace of a smile playing at the corner of his lips and John realised that Sherlock was waiting for him to respond to his question, but he had lost the ability to even exist; he was so shocked. He had never imagined in a million lifetimes that Sherlock Holmes would ask anyone out – let alone _himself._

            “I – er, oh god...” John ran one of his hands through his short hair, and tried to shake his head into action. “Are you genuinely serious Sherlock?”

            “Yes.” Sherlock answered without hesitation.

            “Then... if you're sure it's what you want, and that you don't feel pressured into anything...” John rambled slightly. “What I'm saying is yes – a relationship is something I'd want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all those who have commented - I'm glad that people are reading/enjoying! :) I'm always open to hearing what people think of it, critically or not! :D


	19. Opening The Boxes

****

            A simultaneous message notification broke the moment of silence that had settled between John and Sherlock as they had just been staring at one another, caught up in the moment of acceptance. Both John and Sherlock checked their phones, and John was now convinced that Mycroft had bugged their flat, the message was identical for the two of them:

_'Am I to understand that a new epoch has been ushered in?-MH.'_

            “Has your brother always been this omniscient?” John questioned, staring at the screen of his phone.

            “He's always been this nosy.” Sherlock tutted, throwing down his phone after quickly scanning he message.

            “Has he really got the flat bugged?” John asked in a slightly self conscious way.

            “Potentially, I imagine probably.” Sherlock shrugged, his mind wasn't on his brother at this moment, he was thinking about John, about his acceptance of his offer. He wondered if John was feeling the same as he was, he wondered whether John's brain was doing cartwheels, or his heart speeding in his chest; or whether that was just him because of his inexperience of these matters. John could hardly take his eyes off of Sherlock, his heart was fluttering inside him – like his stomach was full of butterflies.

            “Sherlock – I just want to clarify...” John started, trying not to let his skin turn bright red. “You are absolutely certain that you want to be in a relationship with me? Like more than just working together on cases and living together? Like...” John stopped before the word slipped out.

            “Boyfriends?” Sherlock interjected the word that John had stopped at, John blinked.

            “Well, yeah.” John mumbled; Sherlock had always been direct and to the point, but this was bordering upon blunt in a very sensitive topic.

            “Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “Although...” John's heart froze in his chest, maybe Sherlock was about to backtrack and change his mind. “I... I am completely... I don't know anything about this kind of thing. I'm a novice. You are _far_ more experienced than I am.” Sherlock admitted hesitantly, “Most of – pretty much all of it – makes me uncertain. You _know_ stuff, and I... I don't.” John stared at Sherlock, suddenly getting a glimpse into the mind of Sherlock as a teenager, and he frowned. Very recently Sherlock had given John reasons enough to believe that something had happened to him during his childhood, something that led to him developing a cocaine addiction while most of his peers were stressing about exams, possibly considering looking for part time jobs, and being desperate to learn how to drive. That was a major deviation from everyone else, but of course Sherlock was not like any other person on the planet; it seemed like he had utterly bypassed the normal “angsty” teenage development and skipped straight to having adult problems. And that was something that John could kind of understand; John had only been fifteen himself when his own father had died and he had been forced to step up and become the man of the house. He had gone through all the feelings that occur during the teenage years, as well as working as many hours as he could outside of school so as to keep the rent of the house paid while his mother, then progressively his sister, had disappeared down the neck of a bottle. And people _wondered_ why he had gotten away straight from school to study at university and then continued to run and join the army after that.

            “It's new for both of us Sherlock.” John replied; he suddenly felt rather awkward that he was sitting in his armchair with such a distance between the two of them, but he didn't want to move and cross that space. “Okay, so maybe I'm fractionally more experienced in relationships as a whole doesn't mean I know any more than you about this one. That's something we both have to put in so it does work, but I'm willing to do that.” John was trying not to terrify Sherlock straight away, there would be nothing worse than for him to back out only a few moments into the start of the relationship. “From what I know, and what I’ve heard... good relationships are built on time, trust and communication.”

            Communication – there was that word, it was a word that Sherlock wasn't very attuned to. Communication with anyone had never been his strong point, not with anyone who had ever been a part in his life – perhaps that was why his family was rather dysfunctional, because communication was lacking.

            “I'm... not very good at communication.” Sherlock spoke finally, already he felt his body tense from the expectation of rejection from John. Goodness gracious, this was all going to be so much more work than he had first accounted for; but he didn't, yet, regret it.

            “I know. I've lived with you for nearly two years now Sherlock, but I'm not exactly a prime example of sharing and talking with people, am I?” John tried to reassure Sherlock, “It's something we can work on together.” Together, as a couple – each one trying their best to be honest and open about everything. Shit, this was going to be a massive shock to both John and Sherlock's systems.

            The words ' _trust_ ' and ' _communication'_ were ringing loudly in Sherlock's ears and through his mind; so much so that he realised his knees and arms were physically shaking through the strain that he was mentally exerting upon himself. John watched Sherlock, closely noting the change in his demeanour because of all of the information he was reeling under. Sherlock had placed his elbows upon the edge of his knees, rested his head into his hands and was staring at the floor. The last half an hour or so of the time that Sherlock had spent wandering around in the rain he had used to evaluate the concept of those boxes. He knew that the content of them had affected every single relationship he had ever had, without him ever meaning to let them, and they had totally shaped who he was as a person – with most people he could keep them at arms length, keep them from knowing he was damaged... Most people couldn't put up with his arrogant front for longer than two minutes, but that was part of it's purpose – it kept everyone away from finding out the truth. His detachment from every other human being he came across had been easy, keeping other people out had been easy when he chose to; it was _entirely_ different now. If he was going to be in a proper relationship with John, now he _was_ in a proper relationship with John, then those boxes had to be opened  and the contents explored with John so that he could understand why Sherlock was the way he was...

            While he was brooding upon this, something that had not happened in the longest of time began. He wasn't sure whether it was because of the defrosting of his body, or because of the drudging up of those old memories, but the back of his eyes began to burn with hot tears and his nose ran so much that he was forced to sniff.

            “Sherlock?” John said quietly, feeling slightly shaky as to what was going on with the younger man, especially as the position in which he was sitting was preventing John from being able to see the formulation of expression across his features. What he could see was Sherlock's back rising and falling in a very unsteady, irregular pattern. John suddenly felt awkward, he couldn't honestly tell whether Sherlock was crying! It didn't seem like a very likely thing, John had never seen Sherlock cry – he had kind of expected that  in his unemotional persona it wasn't physically possible for Sherlock to cry. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Was the world coming to an end? Was this his own personal apocalypse or something? He was so unsure of himself, he felt as though he was intruding on a private moment or something – his impulse was fighting to break free, for him to embrace Sherlock, find out if he was alright, and if not _make_ everything okay. But this was Sherlock – who had always been reluctant to share anything with anyone – but the dawning of a new chapter, the starting of a new relationship. Clearly Sherlock had been re-evaluating parts of his life to even consider going out with John; so something had evidently shifted inside of him, but would that really make him suddenly want to share stuff, to start talking properly? John's mind flashed back to the question he had asked him a couple of days ago, when Sherlock had admitted that something had happened to him as a child – maybe that was the impetus for his change... As John was carefully watching Sherlock, trying to evaluate whether to do or say something, he witnessed a drop of water fall and hit the floor near Sherlock's foot, then he sniffed once more. “Sherlock? Are you...”

            “No!” Sherlock cut over him fiercely, but his voice sounded thicker; one of his hands darted quickly over his face, even though his head was still dropped so it was out of angle of what John could see, he highly suspected that Sherlock had just wiped away the tears present on his face. “Yes...” He changed his answer, but it came out as barely more than a whisper. His back shuddered again as he drew in air very quickly. “Communication... it's just – I'm not very, I'm not used to having to communicate, not about anything proper.” He was talking falteringly, definitely fighting against emotion now. “Not about anything important anyway...” John could no longer prevent himself from interacting fully; he pushed himself out of his armchair swiftly and bent down in front of where Sherlock was sitting, kneeling far enough down to get a proper view of Sherlock's face. Sherlock's eyes were red against his ivory skin and the presence of tears streaks down his cheeks looked very unusual.

            “Sherlock...” He spoke quietly, trying to be as reassuring as he possibly could. “It's alright, we can work on that, we don't have to worry about that just now.” John placed his hand upon the edge of Sherlock's knee, just as Sherlock gave a tiny shake of his head.

            “No, no.” He refused this, sniffing once more. “Not about anything like this, not like this important.” The sight of Sherlock's disturb struck into John like physical blows, but he remained silent because of the way Sherlock was breathing, seemingly trying to compose himself. “I... I have to tell you, and you have to understand, because I don't want it to ruin us before we're even started.” John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about, but it seemed to be important to him – and if that was the case then he would listen to all Sherlock had to say.

            “Alright.” John replied coaxingly, not removing his hand from Sherlock's bony knee. Sherlock took a quivering breath and wiped his face once again with his hand.

            “You asked me about something a few days ago, and I told you that I _would not_ talk about it.” Sherlock started, his voice was less thick now, but his face was screwed up at the effort he was putting into forcing himself to talk about this. John felt as though his heart had frozen inside his chest as Sherlock said this – so it _was_ about this that Sherlock wished to discourse. “Because it's something that I haven't really spoken about in a very long time; really at all...” he stopped again and swallowed visibly.

            “It's okay Sherlock.” John comforted soothingly, his insides felt like they were twisting – the way they writhe inside when you feel impending bad news. “You don't have to talk about it now...”

            “No, I do.” He responded firmly, he had decided in his head that this needed to come out. “When I was nine, one of my parents friends, my father's colleagues from his time in the army came to visit us at our home. He came and stayed for a month while he was on leave from a tour of duty; Mycroft was away at school by that point – both of us boarded while at secondary school – so I was in the house on my own, with my parents and their friend.” John had a suspicion, a feeling as to where this was going, and if he was right he wasn't sure that he wanted to hear it. “That _man,_ he took a liking to me; Mummy said it was because he had no children of his own, but she couldn't have been more wrong...” He took another audible breath. “At first he took me out, into town and to the park, stuff like that – and my parents were fine with that cause they knew him, or they thought they did. But after a while he started making comments, just indicating that he was more interested in me.” Sherlock closed his eyes and two tears squeezed out from in between his eyelashes. “Then, I remember the first time, he had taken me fishing, and he touched me and tried to touch me and tried to kiss me. I _wouldn't_ let him.” The last sentence had come out sounding like a child, pettish and defiant, but the weight behind it was forceful. John's breath caught in his throat as he listened to Sherlock. “I tried to run away, but he was bigger and faster than me, and he caught me and pinned me down and – and...” the words had stopped as Sherlock shuddered, struggling to stem the flow of tears. He didn't seem to be able to continue.

            “Did he rape you?” John asked extremely weakly; feeling every ounce and fibre of himself wishing Sherlock to say no. But that wasn't the truth and Sherlock nodded, suppressing a sob by covering his mouth with his right hand. There was a reverberating silence as the information sunk into John's brain, and as Sherlock prepared to speak again.

            “He started... started finding his way into my bedroom at night... I slept in a different wing than my parents so there was no possibility of them finding out...” Sherlock carried on, a slight wavering ever present in his voice. “I had become so resigned to what he was going to do that I didn't even fight against him, I didn't think there was any point in struggling – that would only have made it worse... I have never been so happy as when he left at the end of the month... Knowing that he wasn't going to come creeping into my room, I no longer had to lie awake in anticipation and fear of the door opening...” Sherlock shuddered again as though he was back there. “But he didn't stay away. A couple of months later he left the army, and he came back to stay with my parents until he could set himself up with a house and everything else. I was ten, but he used to say things like I'd flaunt myself in front of him, that I clearly wanted it, and that I was giving myself to him and that I'd never... never be any good for anyone else, that I would always be his, always be marked by _him..._ ” The floodgates had opened up, tears were streaming unreservedly down his cheeks; Sherlock had kept all of this bottled up and locked away inside him for far too long, and now talking about it all was like slicing open an old wound. “I tried... I tried to tell Mummy, but she wouldn't listen to me, she was always too busy, and when I started to mention him she told me to stop being ungrateful about everything that he had done for me, that he had looked after me like I was his own son; I thanked god that I _wasn't_ his son. She wouldn't listen, and she wouldn't – she wouldn't have believed me even if she had listened...” Sherlock stopped, his whole body was convulsing from his sobs, and he was becoming more unintelligible with every word. “I only managed to get away from it when I went away to board at school, and by that time I was beginning to grow up and not be a little kid any more, and that disinterested him... I didn't get on too well at school, couldn't connect, couldn't communicate with others... the whole time, all I could think of was that I was _his_ , that I was marked by him, and so no one else mattered because eventually he would come back. I couldn't tell anyone either; Mycroft wouldn't have believed me, and he was too busy with his grown up life to really bother with his kid brother. And it wasn't like any of the teachers would have been able to do anything about it, and he wasn't an active presence in my life any more. So I tried to lock it all away, to box it up and hide it, cause I had already dismissed the potential of making any friends with people, I didn't want that: I felt dirty, like others would be able to sense that I was tainted, so it was better just to depend on myself, and only myself... and, well, you know what puberty is like – I ended up on my own, desperate to block out all of those memories and just be carefree for a bit, and so: cocaine...”

            “Did... did it work?” John croaked with difficulty.

            “Mostly, took away the memories, took away all of that, let me focus on other stuff. But it was never permanent. I had to learn to lock up those memories permanently myself.” He answered, “But, that, those – what he did... it's influenced me and...”

            “Sssh, I know.” John shushed Sherlock and rubbed his knee carefully; his own knees were beginning to feel stiff from crouching in this position, and he pushed himself up, perching on the edge of the sofa next to Sherlock. John couldn't fully extract what he was currently feeling, his body was a raging battlefield of anger, anguish and his desire to take away all of those things that had happened to Sherlock; so he could hardly imagine how Sherlock was feeling as the victim of those horrific violations. He stretched his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, placing his palm cautiously on his upper arm, and exceedingly gently, he pulled Sherlock in towards him. He was painfully aware that all of Sherlock's body was wracked with sobs, but Sherlock was limp and allowed himself to be steered, resting his head very lightly on the groove of John's collarbone.

            “Oh god Sherlock...” He muttered quietly, “I can't believe you've kept silent.” John was so full of rage for this man that if he had been present John was convinced he would have murdered him with his bare hands. “Oh Sherlock... it's alright, it's okay. No one will ever touch you like that again, I wouldn't let them. If I could I would torture that man so badly he wouldn't know his name by the end of it.” John stroked his fingers through Sherlock's still slightly damp curls. “Oh my lord, it's okay Sherlock, it's okay...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a double-edged sword, I loved and hated writing it at the same time... But now you've found out what's inside those boxes in Sherlock's mind: so what do you think?   
> (I apologise for any OOC-ness of Sherlock, but I went with him reacting in a way that I thought would be likely in that situation - if you disagree, that's cool; you're more than welcome to tell me and give me inspiration to write something after this!) :P


	20. A Caring Caress

There were no more tears, Sherlock's tear ducts seemed to have dried up from the sheer volume of tears that he was producing and its inexperience of doing so, and the tears streaks were drying red down his cheeks. Despite the inability to propagate any more liquid tears, his whole body was still going through the motions of sobbing with John's firm arm holding tightly onto him. Sherlock's body was shaking as he leant into John, the firmness of the muscles in his chest and shoulder was rather comforting. John couldn't see Sherlock's face as it was buried into his shoulder, but he could already tell that Sherlock's face was patched with red blotches, his eyes would be swollen; the tension building in his temples was definitely going to lead to a headache. He tried to take a few deep breaths in through his nose to try and calm down his breathing as the erraticness was causing more problems than anything – his stomach was turning over inside him. It was time for him to pull himself together – he couldn't continue like this... otherwise he would make himself ill. But the assuagement that John was providing was regressing Sherlock mentally back to the nine year old child that he had been when this had all occurred. The frightened little boy who had been forced to grow up well before his time; who had spent part of his childhood and all of his teenage years feeling tainted, dirty, so _damaged –_ with no one who would believe him when he tried to tell them what was going on.

            “Oh god, I need to stop this...” Sherlock muttered, rubbing the hand of the arm he could move across his face and pulling away from John's side slightly, hiccuping.

            “Would you like a glass of water?” John asked, not fully releasing his grip on Sherlock's upper arm.

            “Please.” Sherlock nodded briefly, taking steady deep breaths in and swallowing as he started to feel a little nauseous; John removed his arm from around Sherlock and went to fill up a glass of water in the kitchen. He pressed it into Sherlock's hand which was shaking as he perched back upon the edge of the sofa. Sherlock was appearing to be regaining somewhat, getting over the trauma of divulging and recounting so much personal information about what had happened to him; and John felt the need to speak about it before Sherlock locked up those boxes again – never to let them resurface and be opened again.

            “Sherlock... I have, I want to thank you... for trusting me enough to talk to me. I, I understand that talking about that time must have been difficult, but if you ever want to talk about it again, then I'll listen to whatever you want to say. Thank you for telling me.” John  proffered, Sherlock was looking at the glass in his hand, but it was clear that he was listening because he gave a curt nod.

            “Thanks...” He croaked weakly, “For listening – for believing me...” He waited a moment before raising his head so as to the look present on John's face surprised Sherlock, the concern in his eyes was radiating out of his face so powerfully that the whole shade of his face was coloured. He stared at John for quite a while as he tried to register what the emotional expression was, then it clicked: it was genuine worry...

            “John?” Sherlock uttered, still looking directly at his friend – his _boyfriend_.

            “Yeah.”

            “Thanks John, I mean it – seriously thank you.” Sherlock placed his glass down without breaking the gaze between John and himself. He brought up his hand to cup the side of John's face, his still cold fingers noticeable against the warmth of John's skin. He felt a chill shoot through his nerves as he leaned in towards John. As their lips touched Sherlock closed his eyes, moving his free hand and resting it lightly on John's knee.

            John hadn't expected Sherlock to instigate a kiss, so it was a surprisingly pleasant moment when he did. John felt Sherlock's hand resting on his knees and experienced a longing desire to prove to this man that he genuinely loved him, that he had loved him for so long; that he would do anything he possibly could to protect him. He allowed Sherlock to lead the kiss, he was vulnerable and slightly shaky after talking and John didn't want to take advantage of him. But even without John doing anything, Sherlock had opened his mouth and was running the tip of his tongue along John's teeth. A shiver ran down John's spine as he felt Sherlock's tongue brush against his own. Sherlock was clinging onto John, the fingers of the hand on John's knee squeezing a little; and his other fingers caressing John's face, feeling the indents and bristles where his sideburns would normally grow. John didn't want to break the kiss, not when it was the most fulfilling thing he had felt in so long – it made him feel alive – so was forced to breathe in and out through his nose. It could have gone on for hours, days if they had let it...

            Eventually, however, Sherlock drew back – ending the kiss without creating an awkward moment. John kept his eyes closed for a second longer than Sherlock did; and in that moment, the glimpse of John's relaxed expression – that way a person's facial muscles naturally assume when everything is at ease – Sherlock felt a rush of joy. Then when John opened his eyes, sighing contentedly, Sherlock acknowledged and stored mentally that this was beautiful – John was beautiful – and he had put off for far too long in denying the way he felt for him... Time that couldn't be reclaimed now; but from here on forwards he would try to make the most of every second for the man who believed in him, for the man who loved the damaged detective back...

            “John, I meant it, you know?” Sherlock whispered, a settled happy acceptance nestling in his abdomen and sending warm sparks through his veins and capillaries.

            “Meant what?” John questioned calmly.

            “I love you.” Sherlock said.

            “I love you too.” John responded, a smile twitching his lips; his heart was swelling with gaiety and he leant in to Sherlock again – relishing the entire situation of being close to Sherlock after so long...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too fluffy? Too... I don't know whatever... Please let me know what you think! :)


	21. Mycroft's Reprieve

            That pressure on John's knee was not from his own body, his other leg was rested against the fold in the back of the sofa. He was dimly aware of movement against his side as his brain fought through the twilight time between waking and sleeping. He was immensely comfortable, that he knew, even besides the strange sensations that he couldn't account for. As his mind became aware that the room around his closed eyes was light he remembered the reason for the odd presence he was sure of. His eyes snapped open and he looked down upon Sherlock Holmes, who was curled up on the sofa, one leg intertwined with one of John's. A fleeting smile flitted across his face as he looked down upon the man, whose eyes were closed and his face relaxed peacefully in his slumber. The events of last night were returning like water through a broken dam, flooding into recollection; but along with the joyous memories, the knowledge of what Sherlock had told John about what had told him was also forwardly evident in his mind. Whereas before Sherlock had told John about what had happened, John had just convinced himself that the arrogant nature in which Sherlock often acted was just part of his personality, but now he could see differently – it was a shield away from those things which had occurred. No wonder he had turned to cocaine to escape from those thoughts; the drugs almost seemed like a logical step in blotting them out. It reminded him of Harry, and of his mother, both of them had drunk to obliterate the memories of his father dying' and leaving them with thousands of pounds worth of debt, struggling to make ends meet. It was the same, they had drunk to forget the memories; Sherlock had delved into cocaine for exactly the same purpose.

            Very carefully, and very slowly, John extricated himself from the tangle that the two of them had created on the sofa, sliding his legs out from underneath Sherlock's and standing up off the sofa, trying his best not to wake the sleeping man. It wasn't a very common occurrence – Sherlock sleeping – and John was still sure that the sleep would help recuperate Sherlock from his drug withdrawal and from what he had told John last night. For a minute or so John stood next to the sofa, staring down at Sherlock – who was so peaceful whilst sleeping; before moving quietly to the kitchen to fetch himself a drink.

            As he leant against one of the kitchen counters with a glass of orange juice which he had poured from a carton in the fridge, he became aware of a rustling and clicking noise from outside of the kitchen. Quietly he moved to the door of the kitchen, the noise was coming from down the set of stairs. Maybe it was Mrs. Hudson coming in just to check on her tenants, but John had been sure she had gone to her sister's for the week, but as the door clicked shut John could hardly deny that someone was coming into the flat. John approached the top of the staircase, ready to defend himself if need be against this unexplained intruder. He exhaled heavily when Mycroft appeared at the foot of the stairs, as much as Mycroft was unexpected and slightly annoying with his omniscient presence at times, John would rather have him creeping into the flat than someone breaking in.

            “Keep it down will you?” John commanded in a hushed tone. “He's asleep, and I don't want him woken.” Mycroft stared askance at John for a few seconds, John had never used the authority that came along with having been a commanding officer in the army in front of Mycroft, and Mycroft hadn't expected it from him.

            “Alright, _captain_.” Mycroft replied in a scathing tone, his hand tensing momentarily on the handle of his umbrella. “I merely dropped in to get an update on my little brother.” He breezed in an airy manner, as though this was a normal thing. John's eyes narrowed as he surveyed Mycroft, fully aware that he was giving off the impression of distrust and honestly not caring at that moment. It certainly wasn't an everyday occurrence for Mycroft to turn up at the flat, uninvited – not without an ulterior motive anyway.

            “Mycroft,  know as well as you that you don't just 'drop in' anywhere, everything is planned around you – even something as small as you having a cup of tea.” John started finally, rather firm in his insistence; Mycroft frowned slightly. “If you're here, you came for a reason – not just a flying visit.” John finished, watching Mycroft's hand move on the grip of his umbrella once more; looking more uncomfortable than he had been before, which meant there was truth in what John had just said. “And your face has just proved me right... What is it that you want Mycroft? Actually – I'm quite glad that you're here because I have a few things that I want to ask you about.” Mycroft was definitely looking as though he was regretting the decision to come visit, but he stood firm – guessing correctly that John wasn't about to let him leave without answering the questions. “Do you really have this flat bugged? Sherlock has mentioned the possibility a few times – but I want to hear from you.” John asked, glancing over at the direction of where Sherlock would still be sleeping.

            “Not the whole flat -” Mycroft started, but John cut over him.

            “Not the whole flat?! Well thank bloody god not the whole flat!” John hissed in vehement outrage. “So what parts _do_ you have bugged?” John was breathing hard through his nose, trying to prevent himself from becoming obscenely angry and exploding at Mycroft; Sherlock was still asleep, and John wanted that to remain so.

            “The living room, the kitchen, oh – and the hallway downstairs by the door.” Mycroft added the last with a slight jolt, as though he had just recalled it. He was speaking as though bugging your brother's place of residence was a normal thing; possibly he was attempting to pacify John, as the muscle in John's jaw was twitching in fury.

            “Right...” John breathed, trying to calm himself down enough. “May I request for those bugs to be removed?”

            “Yes, I can arrange that.” Mycroft had paused before agreeing, and in those few seconds a thought struck John and nearly knocked him over backwards: he knew the reason for Mycroft' visit.

            “You heard what Sherlock told me last night, didn't you?” John questioned directly, it was Mycroft's turn to flick his gaze in the direction of the sitting room, where the sleeping Sherlock was.

            “It was flagged, and yes – I listened.” Mycroft admitted, nodding.

            “Flagged?”

            “The company that deals with the microphones and the recordings, I had given them a note to inform me if there was anything that sounded like explicit drug use, or anything that could be considered particularly triggering or dangerous – so whenever they thought they heard anything, they'd inform me and I'd listen to what they thought.” Mycroft replied.

            “But – but, don't you think that's like spying Mycroft? Sherlock's grown up now, don't you think you should let him make his own choices and mistakes?”

            “I have done.” Mycroft responded bluntly. “Many times – and it has never ended well. Think about it like this, if you could monitor Harriet without her knowing – just keep an ear out for how she's doing without actually being present, but you would still have the option to get involved if you need to – would you take it?” John pondered this for a second; on one hand he understood where Mycroft was coming from, but on the other hand it was an invasion of someone else's privacy.

            “No. It's up to Harriet whether she decides to drink, I'll not intervene in her choices, but I'm there to pick up the pieces in the end.” John answered firmly.

            “Then you're either very brave, or very stupid.” Mycroft said, John scowled slightly. “I wouldn't like to leave it so long that I'd have to pick up the pieces; I get the feeling that with Sherlock there would be no pieces, just a coffin.” John allowed the enormity of Mycroft's words to sink in, knowing full well that he was probably correct in what he was saying – Sherlock did take everything to the extreme, he pushed all of his barriers – mental and physical – while working on cases, and John had seen that when he indulged him that when he indulged himself in drug use, he always pushed his body to the peak of what it's physicality could cope with.

            “Yes, well...” John murmured to himself. “I understand that.” John felt reluctant to admit that Mycroft was, perhaps, correct. “But that's not the point – you heard what Sherlock told me last night.”

            “I did.” Mycroft sighed, his shoulders deflating somewhat, as though the life had been drained out of him momentarily. “And I can't deny that I haven't suspected something of the sort to be the actuality...” John was frowning at Mycroft.

            “What do you mean? You already knew?” He asked, in confusion with the cryptic manner in which Mycroft discoursed.

            “No. I did not.” Mycroft replied. “But there have been indications, and I knew that something must have turned Sherlock to cocaine, and other habits during his teenage years – he was too intelligent for there not to be a reason behind it...” Mycroft made a very obvious movement and glanced around the hallway, in which himself and John was still standing. “May we continue this conversation in the kitchen?”

            “Hmmm, yes, yes – of course.” John agreed, “But only if you're quiet, I don't want to risk waking Sherlock.” John warned, Mycroft nodded solemnly and both men moved quietly into the kitchen; Mycroft leant his back against one of the kitchen counters.

            “We used to get on.” Mycroft started abruptly but quietly also. “When we were kids, Sherlock and I used to be really close.” John found this slightly difficult to believe; Sherlock had always seemed to hate his older brother, it seemed foreign to think that they once got on well. “I looked after him when he was really little.” Mycroft said with a sigh, “It all changed once I had gone away to school. Sherlock wasn't keen on other people in the first place, he was a little bit of a loner, introverted; the both of us enjoyed our own company over that of outsiders – which is kind of why we understood each other, and knew that often the both of us were comfortable on our own. But I came back from term at school when I was sixteen and he had changed, I guessed I just put it down to him growing up and not thinking it was 'cool' to hang out with his elder brother any more;and I had exams and a whole load of other things coming at me from every side, so needless to say, I wasn't too bothered that Sherlock had changed his habits again and was even more introverted than before – I thought he had gotten used to his own company because I was away at school... If I had known – if I had sensed there was a further reason behind it at the time then I would have done something!” Mycroft's voice was giving away the extent of how much this news had hit him; although his exterior appeared calm and composed his voice had a forced sound, like he was pushing himself to say it and the tiny wheeze present indicated that his voice was close to cracking with emotion. “God I wish I had known, and not shrugged his queer behaviour then aside, if I had known then things would have turned out so – so.” Mycroft had come to an abrupt halt. “I know I can't change anything now; Sherlock and I will probably never get along, at least I now understand his reasons for turning to drugs and other habits.” John stared at Mycroft, feeling split down the middle about what Mycroft was actually saying. John's loyalty had always been, and remained, with Sherlock – and at this moment, in the wake of hearing what Sherlock had been through, all of what Mycroft was telling him sounded like bullshit. Mycroft possibly was being genuine, but to John it seemed that it was maybe too late for Mycroft's affirmation and condolences – that there had been too much hurt caused for anything now to mean anything. But John could kind of put himself into Mycroft's shoes – even just faintly – if something had happened to Harry and she had gone through change because of it, and refused to talk about it, John would have been powerless to find out anything. If Sherlock had shut Mycroft out and refused to tell him anything, then how could Mycroft be held responsible for not knowing? Sherlock had even admitted that Mycroft had tried to find out the initial reasons for his cocaine habit the first time he had gone through withdrawal; and Sherlock had refused to tell him anything. A thought and a flash of rage shot through John simultaneously and he balled his fists.

            “Why are you here Mycroft?” John repeated in a low voice, barely more than a growl. “Do you think you can do anything that will make this better? Or – what?”

            “No, _I_ don't think I can make this better,” Mycroft replied, vastly emphasizing his personal pronoun, one eyebrow raised high up on his forehead. “I think you could, though I've suggested this belief before.”

            “Yeah, you think that I'll be able to get through to him.” John said under his breath, but he had to consider that Mycroft might be correct about that. “But that doesn't answer my question.” He added more loudly.

            “I want to apologize.” Mycroft stated, straightening his waistcoat.

            “To Sherlock?” John asked surprised, Mycroft nodded. “About what? About bugging his flat and intruding on his private business? Cause I think he's going to have something to say about that...”

            “About bugging the flat and about being rather harsh towards him when I didn't know his reasons for acting out.”

            “See, when you say it like that, it still sounds like you're blaming him for acting in a way that I think is perfectly expected according to what happened to him.” John pointed out, despite the fact he was inwardly marvelling at how Mycroft had sucked up enough of his own pride to even think about apologising.

            “Well for not understanding that he would have his own reasons, and attempting to pry into what was not my business.” He corrected his initial wording; John stared at him for several moments, dumbfounded.

            “Right... I – uh,” John cleared his throat and shuffled from foot to foot, trying to think of how to verbalise what was in his head in the correct manner. “Well, I'm glad that you've reaslied that Sherlock had his reasons and, uh, wasn't being selfish, or childish... but, uh – well, I don't think that this is a good time for apologies, Mycroft.” Mycroft looked rather doubtfully at John, a line becoming present in his forehead very similar to the one that appeared on Sherlock's when he was engaged in deep thought.

            “Ah, well... yes. I suppose you're right.” Mycroft sighed in a defeated way. “I understand your concern; and I understand that Sherlock has only just confided in you – maybe now is not the time to wade in myself...” He seemed to be pondering the matter himself.

            “Exactly.” John confirmed. “I'd be immensely glad if you could have the microphones removed before you attempt to speak to Sherlock.” Mycroft appeared to be taking the way John was speaking to him in an admirable manner – especially as John expected that he would not be used to someone from such a lowly station as John to be giving him advice.

            “Yes, fine.” Mycroft repositioned himself. “I shall arrange for the microphones' removal and then I shall talk to my little brother.” John nodded, allowing Mycroft to make movements towards the door as to make his exit. “And in the meanwhile, I suppose you can be accountable for Sherlock's well being, whatever that may be; I know you're worthy to do that.” Mycroft's final statement left an impending wealth of responsibility upon John, but what Mycroft was asking him to do posed no problems. John cared about Sherlock, so looking after him would be absolutely no problem whatsoever... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I'd love to hear what you think - good or bad! :)


	22. Past, Pride and Pentinent

For most of his life, being in the army was the thing that John Watson had been most proud about. He had excelled at medicine during his university years, but the prospect of settling down into a GP surgery had not appealed to him once he had graduated at twenty-two – he was still young, and wasn't tempted by a boring 9-5 job which would curtail his opportunity to go out and have a life while he still could. The idea of returning home while trying to find a suitable GP post was not an inviting one either; his mother was all but gone from alcoholism – and Harry wasn't much better, despite her recurring insistence that she was trying for a place at college to study engineering. He had repeatedly told himself since his first year at university that under no circumstances would he return home... but that left him as a prospective graduate with a dilemma – specialise and apply for more training in a hospital area, or try and find a GP surgery that was willing to take on a new graduate very quickly after leaving uni... But then a chance comment thrown out by his graduate advisor changed the tilt of his perspective completely.

            “With marks like yours, the armed forces would probably be more than keen to accept you, they're always looking for decent medics.” It had been a throw away comment because John had displayed indecision about his further career, but the idea had firmly taken root within John's brain. He had checked out all three of his options: army, navy and RAF, to find out what he would have to do to try for a place with one of them. He was surprised to find out that applicants who already had a medical degree had much less training than those who were coming in from a different area of the force... For all three there were academic tests, and a physical that had to be passed even before an interview stage. John had been in one of the university football teams, and he had been in the athletics club, so the prospect of a physical wasn't daunting; and as he had coped with four years of medical exams, some general academic tests should not pose an atom of a problem. John was baffled as to how he had not thought about the forces before! It was the promise of a relatively good salary for someone just out of university, the chance to continue living a “laddish” existence by combining it with work, and it would mean he wouldn't have to go home.

            So John had escaped, managing to secure a place in all three of the forces, he had just had to pick the one that sounded most interesting – and the army had sounded like it would be an adventure, and his decision had been made... He didn't regret that decision, not at all – even after the time that he had been shot. Some of the best times of his life had been during his army training, he had ended up working with some amazing men and women, and their comradeship had left an imprint on his mind as though they had been a family, a mainly masculine family at that. The jokes, and games, and ways they spent their time when not involved in active work were pretty dark, and some were rather gruesome. John soon discovered that many joke were accepted by his army mates, but not by his university friends. And sometimes, just sometimes, his military mindset crept in with thoughts that certainly would not be acceptable in the wider society – and John felt ashamed of those times, like he was letting not only himself down, but also the great people whom he had worked with. One of those times had been on the day he first met Sherlock, when he had shot that cabbie. And although that would never have stood up in a court of law, it still was not something he was particularly proud of having done... Now was one of those moments again, as he stood at the archway which conjoined the kitchen to the living room, staring at Sherlock sleeping on the sofa.

            For several long moments while Mycroft had been talking to him, John had felt so overwhelmed with rage and a mixture of other confusing emotions that in that instant he could have attacked Mycroft. The anger and resulting wave of hatred had been so strong that John couldn't recall having ever consciously experienced it before. In those seconds John wished that it had been Mycroft instead of Sherlock. Mycroft who had been forced upon, Mycroft who had been forced to keep silent and deal with the resultant turmoil, Mycroft who might have turned out the way Sherlock had... but that was _sick_ , wasn't it? Of course it was – wishing something like that on another human being? And once that moment had passed John had felt ashamed and thoroughly _disgusted_ with himself. How could that thought even have entered his mind? If his army mates could have heard that then John had no idea what they might think of him, but that wasn't the main point now – Sherlock was the most important thing now. John had left his army mates behind when he had been forced out of the army and Sherlock had been the person who had saved him, even though in a rather paradoxical manner, but he had – and John was more than willing to return the favour. His mind was dwelling heavily upon the abuse which Sherlock had gone through, as well as how his abuser had gotten away, never accused...

            Sherlock had said that he must tell John as it had affected all relationships in his life – and John could see how... Even despite the fact that Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock had been distant with most other people while a child, before these terrible happenings. The way Sherlock was must, in some part, be down to those things – and as much as John wished that Sherlock had not had to go through them, he also wondered whether Sherlock would have become part of his life, whether he would have developed in such a way if there had not been that impact upon his personality. John jumped slightly as Sherlock rustled within his sleep, but he appeared to settle back down straight away.

            A revelation had occurred to John – Sherlock was clearly intelligent, he could have been anything he so desired to be if he put his mind to it... Mycroft had indicated that he had shown promising signs of delving into unresearched areas of science, or matters of deep philosophical thought, but had chosen to become a detective out of, what Mycroft had seen as, pure spite to his intelligence. But John thought he had stumbled upon the idea which was Sherlock's reasoning for setting up his own career as a consulting detective... After Sherlock had gone through the abuse, when he had tried to speak up but had been silenced, he must have known that his abuser would get away with his crime without further reprimand... So he had decided to devote his life to catching criminals so that no one else would have to go through the pain of those who had wronged them getting away with their misdeeds. And he was never going to be satisfied – no matter how many cases he took on and solved, or how many criminals he successfully captured – because ultimately he was trying to chase _that man..._


	23. Spite and Love

“You look unhappy.” John started as Sherlock's voice floated over from the sofa, breaking in upon John's thoughts. He hadn't realised that Sherlock had woken up as he hadn't moved from the position he was in on the sofa, but as John looked at him now he saw that Sherlock's eyes were open and awake – he wasn't just in the groggy stage of awakening. He didn't move from how he was stretched out, seemingly incredibly relaxed.

            “I'm not unhappy.” John replied quietly, moving forwards so he was leaning against the arm of the sofa where Sherlock's feet were propped up. Sherlock stretched his arms up above his head, inadvertently pulling his shirt up as he did so and revealing a fine strip of pale skin across his hip bones. John couldn't help but stare – a cold shiver descended down through his body. “Do you – uh, would you like a cup of tea?” John asked, trying to take his mind away from Sherlock's body.

            “Yeah,” Sherlock replied while still stretching then exhaled and let his arms drop. He swung his feet round off from up on the soda and sat up; John noted, as he went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, that Sherlock suited his hair ruffled all over the place. John was quivering, his insides contracting and relaxing repeatedly; his physical attraction to Sherlock had increased tenfold in under twelve hours... ever since that kiss.

            _'Tea.'_ John thought, _'I've got to make tea – focus on the tea.'_ He told himself as he watched the water in the kettle beginning to bubble and was aware that Sherlock had slouched over behind him, diminishing his tall frame somewhat as he leant against the archway. _'It doesn't matter how attracted you are to Sherlock.'_ John told himself as he dumped a teabag into each mug. _'You need to take things at Sherlock's pace and allow him to become comfortable with everything.'_ He poured the boiled water into the mugs and watched as the teabags swirled around within the liquid, creating intricate patterns as the colour stained out. _'It might be slow, it might take a little while to build up his trust in **those** areas, but it will all be worth it in the end.' _Then out of nowhere, Sherlock's arms wrapped around John's waist; at first John tensed up at the surprising contact.

            “You do this thing with your face when you're thinking,” Sherlock said in a low voice, his mouth not far away from the top of John's ear. “Or when you're worrying.” John felt Sherlock's grip tightening momentarily, then he let go altogether. “It suits you in an odd kind of way.” Sherlock rested his arm on the counter next to where John's hand lay. “Something's bothering you.” Sherlock stated finally, pulling together his observations into deduction as John stirred sugar into one of the mugs.

            “No.” John replied with some uncertainty.

            “You want to say that again and make it convincing?” Sherlock offered, picking up his mug by the handle. John picked up his own and walked through into the living room. John sat down on the sofa and took a drink of his tea – forgetting that the liquid was scalding hot. Sherlock was standing with his mug in his hand, watching John's movements very minutely.

            “Mycroft came to visit.” John told Sherlock, and the mug which he had been halfway up to his lips froze midway. “He's got this flat bugged.”

            “I suspected as much.” Sherlock answered, holding gaze with John. “Doesn't surprise me at all seeing how nosy he's been with the rest of my life.”

            “But does it not infuriate you?” John questioned, slightly baffled by Sherlock's calm response to this intrusion on his privacy.

            “Not particularly, I guessed he would have some surveillance on me – and I'm sure that if I so wished I would have been able to find and remove all of Mycroft's  microphones.” He shrugged, taking a sip of his tea.

            “So, you _wanted_ him to hear?”

            “Not purposely.” Sherlock shook his head. “I... I hadn't intended on him hearing anything like what he must have...”

            “I asked him if he would remove the microphones, I told him that he had no right to spy on you any more.” John said quietly.

            “Quite rightly.” Sherlock responded firmly. “It's not as though he need worry, or need to now. Thank you.” John could feel his cheeks tinting as Sherlock thanked him, but also felt that the other motive of Mycroft's visit should be expounded upon too.

            “He, uh, wanted to apologise to you.” Sherlock's eyebrows raised high up onto his forehead. “About not knowing, and how he treated you as a result.”

            “Really?” Sherlock's voice was flecked with incredulity. “Wow... well, I shall certainly be seeing him the next time he graces us with his appearance in the flat.” John couldn't understand how Sherlock was being so calm about all of this, knowing how Sherlock's normal temperament towards his brother was rather fiery; if it had been him then he would have been raging with Mycroft, but Sherlock didn't even seem to care. John stared down at his mug, which he was clasping in between the palms of his hands; Sherlock's views of what was acceptable and not was slightly skewed at the best of times, but his allowance of Mycroft's encroachment of his private life was another strange leap for John. “But that's not it, something else is on your mind – not just Mycroft.” Sherlock said sitting down beside John on the sofa, almost mirroring the way that John was sat; his feet equally spaced with his elbows resting on his knees. It was true that John was still trying to dispel the tails of the thought he had had about Sherlock and Mycroft's places being switched, and how clearly wrong that was, but he wasn't keen on letting Sherlock know his appalling thought. No matter how bent Sherlock's understanding of acceptability was, Mycroft was still Sherlock's brother – and if they had been close at one point then it maybe wasn't such a striking idea.

            “Nah,” John tried to shrug it off. “Just Mycroft said some stuff, I was just thinking about it.”

            “Such as?” Sherlock asked, turning his head so he could look at John's face.

            “Like you used to be close when you were kids.” John put forth, remembering the first thing that Mycroft had said which had confused him slightly. Sherlock's eyebrows had knit together on his forehead as he thought about what John had just said.

            “I suppose we were close, when we were both young.” Sherlock admitted hesitantly, as though it was difficult to remember that far back into his childhood. “We used to have a nanny who would look after us both, but Mycroft and I were the only two children for miles around – so we did get along...” Sherlock stopped and pouted a little. “Mycroft used to mother me, he is seven years older than me – and he always made the point of looking out for me.”

            “So...” John started very cautiously. “What happened? What stopped you from being close?” Sherlock leant back into the sofa, the hand with his mug resting on his thigh, and he exhaled heavily.

            “You know what happened.” He answered in a monotone; there was a pause while both Sherlock and John recovered their thought paths. “But aside from that, the both of us grew up... and a seven year age gap is quite a considerable one. He was going to board at high school and I hadn't even started primary – would you want to play games with your kid brother when you had just spent a year reading Shakespeare and Chaucer? I know I certainly wouldn't have wanted to if our places had been switched.” Sherlock swept the matter aside as though it was matter of fact that Mycroft's education had meant he was too interested in scholar than playing pirates with his five year old brother. John could appreciate that slightly; any age gap between siblings created a problem when one had started to mature and the other had not. Harry and himself were only three years apart, but he remembered becoming interested in hanging out with his mates rather than playing imaginary games with her.

            “You just grew apart?” John questioned, unconvinced that the two brothers just making their own way could possibly lead to so much animosity between them presently.

            “Yeah... mainly.” Sherlock said, shrugging his shoulders rather non-chalantly, then  he sighed again and leant forwards so he was in a line with John.

            “Mainly?” John murmured, attempting to question Sherlock, but at the same time not wanting to push the subject any further.

            “I... resented Mycroft.” Sherlock admitted, speaking very forcefully and matching the tone of his voice by grinding one of his feet down into the rug underneath it. “I couldn't put it into words at the time, but I know now; I blamed him for being away at school and so for not being there when _he_ was.” John almost couldn't believe the bitter quality ringing throughout what Sherlock was saying, “I was angry because I convinced myself that when Mycroft came back from school everything would be alright... but he had grown up. And then... I blamed him for not being there, because if he had been then maybe that man wouldn't have just picked on me.” Sherlock placed his half full mug down, and clasped his hands together in a sort of praying position in front of his face. “So I think I am the reason that we no longer can bear to be in each other's company for longer than two minutes without squabbling... because I never told him that I resented that he was normal, and I was damaged.” Sherlock had said all this with such steel and determination that John knew it must be true – that it was something he had spent a great deal of thought on at one point or another, until he had come to that conclusion. John let out a shaky breath that he hadn't even realised he'd been holding.

            “Something was bothering me.” John admitted quietly, feeling apprehensive about confessing his thought to Sherlock, but also slightly relieved that Sherlock had had the same kind of thought. “When Mycroft was speaking to me earlier, there was a moment, just a moment, when he made me angry – and in that second I wished that you and he had had your places switched... so you wouldn't have had to go through any of that.” John took a deep breath in, “But when that thought passed, I felt genuinely sick – because it's wrong to wish that on a person!” John screwed his face up momentarily. “And... and what happened to you was disgusting, inhumane, and if I found the guy then I'd kill him; but that's kind of made you _'you'_ , hasn't it? And you saved my life, so if none of that had happened, where would I have been?” John clamped his mouth firmly shut as he was beginning to ramble nonsense. John had kept his eyes screwed shut while he waited for Sherlock to say something; but the silence seemed to stretch on and on until John couldn't bear it any more, he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock's face and was perplexed to see that Sherlock was smiling! Well, the left side of his mouth was twitching up into the closest thing that John had ever seen to a smile on Sherlock's face – but that's not what John was concentrating on; he was more interested in Sherlock's eyes, which were glowing with a kind of warm knowledge. “What? Sherlock – why are you looking at me like that?”

            “You... sometimes you seem so clueless that I wonder how it's possible for you to function.” John frowned and Sherlock apparently noticed that he wasn't quite putting across his true meaning. “You shouldn't feel ashed at thinking about a switch between Mycroft and I.” John grunted, clearly categorising this as a subject Sherlock knew nothing about inside his own mind. “No, don't you  get it?” Sherlock was speaking quickly again – as though this was part of a case that he was deciphering. “ _Everyone_ thinks something like that at one point or another, everyone wishes someone's places had been switched – whether for bad or good. I spent _years_ wishing that it had been Mycroft rather than me; in my case it was because I felt like I had been wronged doubly – firstly because of the events, secondly because the person who I thought I would be able to go to and be understood by was completely disinterested, so I wished that he could understand, by having it happen to him... _That's_ wrong – if people found out about what _I_ had wished they would be scandalized: why would you put that upon your brother when you know what the effects that it had on yourself are?” John couldn't see the difference between what Sherlock was describing and what he had personally thought, but Sherlock clearly did and was going to tell him. “but the way you thought it was completely different; you thought about it as a means to take away the memories, the pain, the cause of the effects from me... the thought might have felt atrocious, but your _intentions_ were good and that makes all the difference! I thought of it out of spite, but you thought of it out of love... Yours was much more admirable than mine, so you have nothing to be ashamed about. No one would think badly of you for wishing to take away something that caused pain.” Sherlock finished. “So don't over analyse it and think that you're letting anyone down, because you're not...”

            John hadn't moved from where he was sitting; his feet still spaced and the direction of his gaze towards the floor, but once Sherlock had spoken he turned his head so as to retain a view of Sherlock's face, and as he listened his heart flipped over in his chest. Sherlock, who was as unacquainted with the matters of emotion as it was possible for a human being to be, had read and understood the sentiment of John's thoughts even better than the owner of those thoughts. Sherlock was almost impossible to completely fathom; his ability to read people and give across, at least, an impression that he understood what they were thinking. John sometimes felt a touch of annoyance that someone so detached could be capable of such a wealth and depth of compassion, but not now – right now his heart was tumefying with care and appreciation for Sherlock. Sherlock looked calm, far too calm for everything around him, far too calm after having heard John say he wished that Mycroft had been sexually abused rather than him... but then that was how Sherlock dealt with everything; coolly, calmly, detached from the rawness and the grinding pain of emotion. And John loved him.

            He hadn't intended to, or planned it beforehand, or given it more than two seconds thought, but he had leant in towards Sherlock and kissed him. The understanding and acceptance from Sherlock had lit something inside of John, and now was not the time for gentility... There was a fire burning inside of him, burning through his soul with an unrestrained passion. Sherlock's hand had lifted and was skimming across the top of John's short cut hair; John had unclasped his hands from around the empty mug, allowing it to fall to the ground, raised one hand to tangle in Sherlock's curls and rested the other hand firmly underneath Sherlock's scapula, feeling the firm tense of muscles. John was kissing Sherlock fiercely, blindly, obliviously – his tongue snaking its way into Sherlock's open mouth. All the worries that John had experienced previously had completely evaporated from his mind – by the way Sherlock was reacting and kissing back, it didn't seem like he could be taking advantage of him.

            At first John felt like he was in control as he had initiated the kiss, but Sherlock had taken over, running his tongue enticingly over John's lips. Sherlock could sense John's hands, one running through his hair and the other placed comfortingly on his back; his entire body was tingling and his stomach was doing dips inside him. Similarly John was overcome with a pulling desire, a longing to hold, to caress, to identify Sherlock as his own; there was no way he could prevent his own body reacting in a way that was perfectly natural. The kiss was almost at the stage where it turns into something more; where the lips don't just touch but meld into one another, and where the tongues don't just brush, but dance intimately in unison... Sherlock was still brushing one hand through John's bristled haircut and, without warning, he moved his other hand – of which his fingers had been splayed across John's cheek – and rested it upon John's thigh. John pulled back very suddenly, consciously aware that it wasn't possible for Sherlock _not_ to have felt John's erection from the location that he had placed his hand down.

            “Sherlock, I -”

            “Sshh, don't say anything.” Sherlock silenced John, leaning in towards John to resume kissing him, completely oblivious to the embarrassment that John was currently dealing with internally. The kiss that restarted was gentler, luring John back into the moment that had just been broken. At first John was tense, all of his barriers having been evoked by Sherlock's unintentional discovery, but Sherlock seemed to know just how to break down those barriers as his hand pressed against John's erection through the seat of John's trousers. An electric shiver shot down John's spine, and he opened his mouth in a noiseless groan, breaking their kiss yet again.

            “Sherlock... I... you,” John panted, unable to form a coherent sentence as Sherlock was still padding his hand firmly onto him. Sherlock paused, enjoying watching John in such a stertorous state; John shuddered as Sherlock increased his tender pressure, and he reached out and took hold of Sherlock's wrist. “Sherlock, I don't... don't want to push you...” John tried to speak, wanting to make it clear that he wasn't expecting more of Sherlock than he was ready to give.

            “John,” Sherlock's voice was much more placid than John could wish to portray at this moment; Sherlock's other hand had released from John's grip from his wrist and, without breaking eye contact with John, moved John's hand to the crotch of his own trousers. “I've spent most of my life not wanting to be touched at all... if I'm allowing you to, then know I'm more than comfortable with it.” His voice was barely more than a whisper as John's hand rested upon the hard lump present within Sherlock's own trousers. “It's more than just okay... it's perfect.”

 


	24. Act of Love

            “Sh-Sherlock....” John forced out his words, his voice was quivering as a result of Sherlock's lips being in contact with the skin of his neck. “Sherlock, this... this room is bugged!” John remembered, squirming with an irrepressible energy being caused by the light touch of Sherlock's lips and the more impending pressure of Sherlock's hand upon his crotch.

            “So?” Sherlock whispered, removing his mouth from John's neck. If John hadn't currently been in such a compromising, although pleasant, situation he would have rolled his eyes at how Sherlock did not care for an iota that the room they were in contained several hidden microphones.

            “So someone's listening to us.” John started, trying to pull away out of Sherlock's reach – not because he wanted to stop, but because of the prospect of someone else hearing them. It lived up to the other parts of Sherlock's personality, that he wouldn't give a damn as to whether anyone else heard – but John was much more self conscious than Sherlock, and he _did_ care about who was listening. God, when he had been with his first girlfriend he couldn't bear to make out in front of her cat – he had been too aware of a set of eyes watching him, and he felt the same with the certainty that someone was listening – but there was more of a desire to resolve it this time; he really wanted Sherlock, he _needed_ Sherlock.

            A smile was etching across Sherlock's face, he genuinely had no idea that John was so squeamish about the possibility of being recorded doing _anything._ The stubbornness on John's face made Sherlock's salacity increase. Very tenderly Sherlock took John's hand in his own, proceeding to stand up off the sofa at the same time and pulling John with him.

            “Come on then,” Sherlock suggested, giving John's hand another gentle tug, drawing him along behind him. Sherlock was moving quickly, clearly not wanting to waste another minute of their time. “Come on.” Sherlock encouraged again, John stumbled behind him as Sherlock started to make his way out of the room and up the first set of stairs.

            There was no time for questioning whose bedroom, Sherlock had wrenched at his door handle, flung the door open and shoved John in with such voraciousness that it bordered on fervour. John stumbled as Sherlock pushed him into the room; he suddenly felt he had awoken a sleeping beast, as Sherlock's eyes seemed to flash as he closed the door and turned to look at John who was standing a foot from him. If it was possible to see the conversion of energy in the physical form then there was no doubt that electric sparks would have been flying between the two of them.

            “Sherlock... are you sure about this?” John asked quietly, mentally noting that they were definitely in Sherlock's bedroom – and he had never seen the look in Sherlock's eyes before, not even in his most exciting of cases.

            “Of course I am John.” Sherlock answered as normally as though John had just asked him if he wanted milk from the supermarket. Another few moments passed where John stared at Sherlock and Sherlock stared back – both waiting for the other to move first...

            Then they both sprang at once; John's hands were suddenly in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock's hands were holding firmly onto John's shoulders, and the two were kissing fiercely. The kiss was hot and wet, more teeth and lustful passion than tongues and softness; Sherlock's hands moved from John's shoulders down, feeling the well built muscular form until his hands rested at the lowest part of John's back,. The height difference between John and Sherlock caused no real problem as Sherlock bent slightly, but not so much an actual stoop. The blood pounding round both of their bodies seemed to be firing at such a speed that John was surprised that Sherlock couldn't hear his heart mechanically pumping away.

            They broke apart for just a second, catching their breath and locking eye contact – John was sure that every emotion he was experiencing was pouring out of his eyes, and was sure that the same was happening with Sherlock also. Then Sherlock bent down and fastened his grip around the back of John's thighs and, displaying a strength that seemed incredibly uncharacteristic for someone so thin, lifted John off his feet in order to push him onto the bed. John was surprised by this swiftness that Sherlock was showing, but he wasn't complaining, or protesting as Sherlock began to unfasten the button from his jeans. He leant down to kiss John again, but it was fleeting this time – more of a tease than a kiss, leaving John desperately wanting more. His urge was overcoming and he began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt first, and then his trousers. Sherlock ran his hand across John's face in a moment of peace between the two men... and then almost leapt on top of John, who was half lying upon the bed. Sherlock's hands pinned John down onto the bed, his bigger hands holding onto John's wrists; the sensitivity and warmth of skin on skin contact exploding through all the nerves in both of their bodies. John was struggling against Sherlock's hold, trying to push up so he could kiss Sherlock again; but there was a smirk on Sherlock's face, he appeared to be enjoying this. He was pressing his crotch down into John, the friction of both of their underwear causing even more tension upon their already present erections.

            “You're enjoying this... too much.” John said to Sherlock and Sherlock’s smirk widened.

            “I wouldn't say too much,” He leant his head down, nuzzling his face into John's neck. John shivered as he could feel the hot breath tingling on his skin.

            “Enough to let my hands go?” John suggested,  Sherlock's grin was becoming unbearable; slowly Sherlock released his grip on John's wrists. John was prepared, he knew what he wanted to do and the second that Sherlock's grip was off from his arms, John had plunged one hand down into the waistband of Sherlock's boxers and was fondling Sherlock's penis. John heard the breath catch in Sherlock's throat as he took a firm hold and began to stroke. Sherlock's hands were roughly at the spacing of John's shoulders -  pressing down heavily into the mattress as he held himself up from falling on top of John; but as John's strokes became steadier and more rhythmic, Sherlock's elbows began to quake as he fought to hold himself still. Then John's other hand gripped Sherlock’s shoulder and pushed him, carefully, over so that he was resting on his side next to John in the bed. All the time that John had been manoeuvring Sherlock, he had felt the blood in him boiling like liquid lava, and his erection was at the point where it really needed dealt with. In a bound John had shoved Sherlock over onto his back and was straddling his hips. His right hand was still gripping Sherlock's cock, and his left hand was running up Sherlock's torso, caressing each indent and curve and feeling the expanse of his ribcage as he took several guttering breaths. John was so aware of how the situation had progressed, he didn't want to rush or pressure Sherlock at all, and he certainly didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable about this... He wanted it to be just right for Sherlock, but he knew that if he continually asked whether it was alright Sherlock would become annoyed at him... then he might stop, and John didn't want this to stop. He buried his face into Sherlock's neck, near his larynx so that he could feel the gentle buzzing of Sherlock's breath rushing in past his vocal chords. Tenderly John ran his lips down Sherlock's neck, then nibbled so gently that Sherlock squirmed as though being tickled, breathing out so heavily that John felt the air flow past his hair and skin. His firm, constant strokes upon Sherlock's cock were producing an effect now, as Sherlock's hips rolled in fluid movement with them. Unexpectedly, Sherlock's fingers gripped the wrist of John's hand which was around his penis, preventing both of them from making any further movement. John looked up into Sherlock's eyes as his movement was cut short, and saw Sherlock was trying to catch his breath.

            “John.” He uttered, his voice was low and gravelly, possibly the most intimate and deeply arousing that Sherlock was capable of – and it had the right effect, sending cold shivers chasing through John. “Let's do it, _please?”_ The last word was a plea, the like of which John had never heard come out of Sherlock's mouth before.

            “W-what?” John stammered in a bit of surprise. “Sex?”

            “Yes.” Sherlock growled, gripping the nape of John's neck with his free hand and tugging him down to kiss him. Sherlock released the grip of John's wrist as they kissed, allowing John to begin movement again.

            “Sherlock, are you absolutely sure?” John wanted to be absolutely convinced that this was what Sherlock wanted before he progressed any further. "are you absolutely positive that you're fine with this, Sherlock? I don't want to do anything that you're not..." Sherlock put his hand up to John's mouth to stop him speaking.

            “John, I'm telling you categorically that I've waited, and you've waited – and I'm ready, if you are.” Sherlock replied calmly. “If I wasn't comfortable then I wouldn't be doing this; but right now, I want you – I _need_ you John.” The words held conviction behind them; conviction enough for John to release Sherlock’s cock and enter him with his fingers, stretching him so this wouldn't be so painful that Sherlock wouldn't be able to cope with it. His heart was hammering as he could hardly comprehend that he was here, in this moment, with Sherlock... The feel of Sherlock's skin, the heat and electricity of their touch; the vibrancy of the emotion present and seeping out through his eyes and into John's soul... And it felt _fantastic!_

John kissed Sherlock, running his tongue along Sherlock's teeth; then as he pulled away  an urgent thought flashed through John's mind – he needed to find some kind of lubricant, otherwise this wouldn't work at all... Sherlock seemed to have read John's mind: “Top drawer.” He muttered, shifting slightly so that John's arm was in reaching distance of the drawer handle. John pulled the drawer open and took a kind of double take when he saw a neatly stacked pile of condoms and a bottle of lube; he was about to question this sight as it was a bizarre one for the inside of one of Sherlock's drawers, but again Sherlock pre-empted him: "don't ask, for something completely unrelated - an experiment. But I'm glad I've got them now." John fumbled, one handed, to sort out the items that he had retrieved from Sherlock's drawer, but Sherlock took them out of his hand. "Here, let me..." Sherlock took position of the lube and the condom and proceeded to open them. John watched Sherlock in amazement; this man was almost beyond belief, he was perfect... he really was in every aspect. John could feel an extra rush of blood as Sherlock lubed him up, he could almost feel his erection throbbing within Sherlock's long digits. Once Sherlock seemed to have prepared John enough he let go of John's penis and relaxed.

            “Are you ready?” John whispered quietly into Sherlock's ear.

            “Never been more ready for anything in my life.” Sherlock answered staring into John's eyes fixedly. John took a deep breath, removing his fingers and positioning himself to enter Sherlock; there was a split second before John slid inside Sherlock in which he felt at ultimate peace with the entire world... Then his world was rocked in such a fashion as his cock entered Sherlock with relative ease, and Sherlock's reaction seemed to portray one – not of pain – but of ecstasy. His back arched, his eyes rolled and his fingers were curling into the sheet. The moan that escaped from Sherlock's lips as John moved his hips, starting a very slow and gentle rhythm, sounded like a musical note. The hair on the back of John's neck was standing on end, and John felt that he had taken on Sherlock's skill of observation; every tiny detail was of the utmost importance, he was drinking in every single movement and sound made by the two of them. The angle in which John was positioned made it almost impossible for him to continue to satisfy Sherlock's erection as he was inside him, but Sherlock had remedied that for himself.

"John..." Sherlock breathed, "John... I, you need to know..." Sherlock forced the words out as his body moved in conjunction with the thrusts of John's hips. "I love you... I really love you."

"I, I love you too, Sherlock." John replied, feeling a warm pooling in the pit of his stomach and knowing that he wasn't going to last much longer but that didn't matter- all that was important was the skin on skin contact, the act of love that the two of them were demonstrating. John’s thrusts and Sherlock's strokes, accompanied by the ecstasied moans of both men, had sped up as they both approached their climaxes. John came first, making a final thrust and experiencing a rushing sensation of warmth and love all through his body; Sherlock was not far behind and once he had come, John pulled out and collapsed beside him on the bed. Both were breathing hard, and John rested his hand on Sherlock's chest. The silence was peaceful for a few minutes as they panted, catching their breath, and reeled internally from what had just happened.

            Eventually Sherlock turned his head to look at John, eyes glittering and his face relaxed into the most natural smile ever upon his face; he rested his arm around John's shoulder and pulled him in close to him – so that John's head was rested near his collar bone. Their breathing was slowing down and their heart rates returning to a normal pace. Sherlock leant his head down and his lips touched John's once more; this kiss was different from the ones previously though – it wasn't rough and desire driven, but gentle, caring, _loving._

            “Thank you.” Sherlock said when they had broken apart.

            “Why are you saying thank you? I should be thanking you...” John answered weakly. “I... you – you're just, you're just perfect Sherlock... and I love you, and I have done so... and I can't believe that I've actually been able to show to you, to hold you, to make love to you.”

            "I'm far from perfect John." Sherlock said bluntly. "But I do love you... and I want to show you that I do; you're more important and special than you could possibly imagine." Sherlock's hand caressed the side of John's face tenderly. "You're so very unique, and your uniqueness has saved me from so much; I’ll never be able to repay you." He sighed slightly, but in a contented manner. "but I can promise always to love you..."

            "That is more payment than you could possibly imagine." John smiled, "your love is worth the world; that you want to give it to me- I just only hope that I can give you the same in return."

             "Oh you can..." Sherlock asserted firmly, squeezing John's shoulder in the closest way to a hug that was possible in the position they were lying. "And I know you will." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it is finally complete! If you have made it this far, I'm REALLY glad that you have - I hope you have enjoyed it, and I'd love to know what you think! :) Thank you! <3


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